


Reading Subtext

by Englandwouldfall



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Does he ever?, Friendship, John doesn't get it, M/M, Romance, Sherlock flirting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-09-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sherlock tried to tell John he was interested... and one time the message was actually delivered. </p><p>(ie. John is an idiot and Sherlock is an idiot too)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bank Accounts

**Author's Note:**

> This is a 5+1+a pointless little bit extra fluff. Nine chapters.

Sherlock was sat with his hands folded in front of him, eyes unseeing, gaze entirely focused on an exact spot on the carpet, thoughts turned inward: John never knew quite what to do with Sherlock so engrossed in some thought or other – although he's definitely gotten more used to it – and usually ended up using it as a respite from the rest of the utter madness that comes with living with the bloke. It was still difficult to be shut out, sometimes, always waiting for Sherlock to feel the need to fill him in on a proportion of the hundreds of things running through the magnificent brain of his, wondering what conclusion he was getting to and whether it really mattered to the man at all as long as there _was_ a conclusion. 

Personally, John lost count of the number of times he'd caught himself staring at Sherlock when he was thinking like that, trying to puzzle him out. There was a whole list of things and questions he would very much like to ask if he wasn't an English male and the man in question wasn't Sherlock, if they were perhaps better at communicating things like how much they meant to each other (beyond the language of cups of tea and John occasionally doing Sherlock's laundry, and Sherlock occasionally sending John's laundry off to some posh place that did it all for him). He thinks he'd quite like to map out Sherlock's childhood and always gets halfway to asking before giving up, knowing that Sherlock probably knows the direction of his thoughts and would answer the half-asked question if he wanted to. In medical terms, John would quite like all the gritty details of Sherlock's drug problems; for one, it would vastly help his radar for recognising danger nights and triggers and ensuring he knew when he was supposed to be worried and when he needed to stop nagging, but mostly he'd like to understand it all and correlate it with his PTSD and his adrenaline addiction and all the cracks in his sanity that, sometimes, he thinks he'd quite like to share with his mad, genius arse of a flatmate. 

It was more difficult to pin down why that inclination was there. Certainly, his therapist was not wrong about his trust issues. He doesn't like opening up to people about things like this. He understands that it's necessary. He'd forced himself through several uncomfortable conversations with Harry about their parents, because it was _important_ for Harry to be able to discuss those relationships (according to her therapist, at any rate). Relationships rarely get very far (particularly with the Sherlock factor added in), so he's never had the problem of a girlfriend asking _why_ she can't meet his parents... although the subject of parents does cup up on dates, a bit, and it wasn't always possible to keep elusive. With his army friends it was rarely appropriate to talk about things like that – there were enough monsters in the present without digging up unresolved issues and prejudice, and with his uni friends there's a vast insurmountable gap that they army placed there. They don't get it and, besides, for the large part John feels those experiences are his own and his own only. 

So why the urge to explain to Sherlock how it felt to turn his back on his parents is there, he doesn't know. He was sure, of course, that Sherlock had deduced what happened... and sometimes he was able to pass it off as another of Sherlock's lessons in factoring in emotions to his deductions. _You know my parents wouldn't accept Harry, Sherlock, but you don't understand what it felt like to have to choose between my sister and my parents whilst knowing that there was only one right choice to make, even though they were both shit options._ It doesn't follow through, though, which was the main problem with that theory. It got to a point when he realised he'd just like Sherlock to know all these things about him because, honestly, he wants to know all these things about Sherlock: how it felt when he first took the cocaine, his first thoughts when Mycroft left for university, his first day at school. 

It wasn’t even because he thought they were important. His sort-of-career was documenting Sherlock's life and thus bringing in clients and he'd done that without once eluding to a past. Frankly, it was a little hard to imagine Sherlock in any other context but one when he's there and they're solving crimes and eating out at restaurants and finding more ways to fight off the boredom. He only cared because, since the beginning, he'd been absolutely and a hundred percent _enthralled_ the by man. 

John dragged his gaze away from Sherlock's thinking position and squared his shoulders up against the continued stream of thought. He doesn't know how Sherlock can possibly think so much all the time, because it's exhausting. 

"Tea?" John asked, although he wasn’t not expecting an answer (and he'd certainly be surprised if there was an answer that stretched beyond petty sarcasm) and wandered into the kitchen to put on the kettle. 

They were not on a case at the moment. They'd barely left the flat in a few days. John only left to buy some more tea bags (the flat's supply had inexplicably been found in a congealed mess in the bath tub – there were no intestines involved so he'd decided to pick his battles and pretend he hadn't seen it) and had come back and found Sherlock deep in thought and conversationally dead. 

_What the hell is he thinking about now?_

o0o0o

He needed to think about the _John problem_ which was impossible to do with John _floating_ around the flat disrupting his thought process by being a little too interesting. He'd ignored texts from Lestrade about cases (nothing had been particularly interesting anyway) and he always ignored Mycroft, so that wasn't unusual, and he'd sat and participated in conversation over breakfast – making an effort to be more irritating than usual in an attempt to drive John out - and waited for John to leave. 

Back in the early days, John seemed to spend the whole time leaving. Grocery shopping, girlfriends, the surgery, catching up with friends at the pub, to get some 'air' – there was a never ending list of things that displaced him from Baker Street. And it was always _frustrating_ to have no one to talk to (although he soon fell into the habit of just talking and pretending John was there) and to have no one to fetch his things and make him tea and nag him to eat and occasionally provide some sudden burst of inspiration was just _wrong._

Lately, John had been more content to remain in the flat. Their state of domesticity seemed to have been blown out of proportion. He seemed able to focus a disproportionate amount of his energy in trying to cook dishes that Sherlock might actually eat, happy just to sit in Baker Street exchanging insignificant and boring conversation with him (although he had a way of making it not quite as boring as everyone else in the world, which was mostly where the _John problem_ had stemmed from anyway) and not bothered that he hadn't had one of his girlfriends in months, and the last social interaction he'd had outside of Sherlock was Lestrade (which hardly counted). 

Disposing of one of the key elements of tea was a certain way to make sure John left. Normally, he tampered with the milk... but by the look of his googling John was planning to cook pasta with some sort of white cheese sauce which sounded almost acceptable, and that was largely because the milk was about to go off (John had nagged him so much about the milk that Sherlock had gone out and bought the biggest container he could find just to prove a point) and John didn't want to waste it. Without the kettle, there would also be no coffee... so, as soon as John left the room to retrieve his laptop from his bedroom Sherlock upturned the box of PG tips tea bags into the bath, turned the tap on and added some of John's shower gel for good measure (he'd temporarily swapped brands due to this one being on offer, and it was most distracting to have John smell wrong). 

_There._

Predictably, John had noticed within about ten minutes when he went to the bathroom, sighed, told Sherlock he was going to go buy some tea bags and, somewhat sarcastically, asked if he could expect company during his trip to Tesco's. 

Sherlock hadn't dignified that with a response. 

The problem... the _problem_ was that John was, by far, the most important thing. Beyond the work (Sherlock was ignoring a perfectly good case to sit at home _think_ about him after all), and beyond the chase for the rush of something which made life feel worth it, John was instrumental and – it seemed – Sherlock near _needed_ him to survive. 

John had started by becoming part of his work, which meant Sherlock cared about him insofar as that it was practical for John to be helpful and functional and in a relatively good mood... although, of course that wasn't quite right because within a few hours of meeting him he'd found he wanted to impress the man, had began to gravitate around him somewhat, had wanted John not to disappear and leave Mycroft with no choice but to allow for Sherlock's rent in the money he was drip fed. John had stayed and then he kept staying and _not leaving_ and with each little bit more of Sherlock that John learnt about, instead of the kneejerk response of a raise of the eyebrows and a quick exit, John instead found him fascinating and cared and John didn't leave. John never left. 

"I'm not the one who's going to be emptying the bathtub of very strong, slightly soapy tea Sherlock." John said – back from the shop then – as he fell into the seat opposite him. 

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock returned, his limbs falling out of the exact position and all the right angles required for proper thought. Damn. 

"No," John said, straight off, "I've already told her she's not to touch it." 

“I never liked baths." 

"Of course not," John said, "they require relaxing and a bit of patience, two of the things which you abhor." 

"Well." 

"You like washing though." 

"Mrs Hudson has a shower," Sherlock said, "it's going to be a problem for you significantly before it's a problem for me." 

"Maybe," John said, "but you _created_ the problem." 

"It's not a problem." 

"It will be if you don't clear it up, Sherlock," John said, smiling ever so slightly, "what could possibly be scientific about teabags in a bathtub with some sort of soap?" 

"Your shower gel,” Sherlock prompted, “please don’t pretend to be irritated, if the amount of it you've been using is anything to go by, you dislike it just as much as I do, John. In reality I did us both a favour." 

"Is there any point asking how you know how much shower gel I've been using? Or better yet, why it bothers you?" 

"The _smell."_

"Obviously," John said, rolling his eyes at the ceiling, "no word from Lestrade, then?" 

"No." 

"You should get out the flat," John said, "go for a walk or something." 

"A walk?" 

"Never know," John said, "might walk straight into a crime in progress. A nice mugging. Bit of theft. Probably a bit much to hope for a body at 3PM on a Sunday, but you never know." 

John _teased_ him. Not, as in all previous experiences, in a particularly malicious way; behind John's jokes – from the first time John called him an idiot – there'd been a distinct sense of _good humour_ that even Sherlock had been able to read. 

And now they were here, where everyone in the world seemed to think they were in a relationship except John. Decoding why it bothered John had taken longer than he'd necessarily admit to, but John was more complicated and had a surprising amount of depth compared with most people's utter transparency; eventually, he'd gotten it pinned down to a rather obvious miscommunication. He took Sherlock's _'married to my work'_ in the same vein as _'high functioning sociopath'_ – an image that Sherlock wished to keep up to the outside world. 

Which was, of course, true. Until it wasn't. Or, at least, until it wasn't enough to justify the fact that Sherlock could feel John looking at him and he wanted, somehow, to wrestle with the space between them until it wasn't there anymore. 

Clearly, it would be better for everyone if John made the first move; Sherlock viewed most social interactions as a battle to be won and understood romantic relationships to the extent that he could recognise them in other people and deduce when they were a reason for a murder, which didn't exactly make him qualified to be the one to push their relationship further. John would know what to do. John _understood_ these things and _understood_ that Sherlock didn't have a clue. Except Sherlock had already ruined any chance of that back in Angelo's and now John considered the case closed and barely even thought about all the things that Sherlock could deduce so easily. John had barely _acknowledged_ the fact that – through all his protestations of 'not gay' – John cared about him more than anyone, had done away with any girlfriend figure, and looked at him as though he was _the most important thing._

"Maybe we should go out for dinner." 

"And do away with your pasta plans?" Sherlock asked, glancing towards him. John's eyes, for a split second, showed that familiar spark of amazement (a gaze of _that was brilliant, remarkable, amazing_ ) before shifting into weariness and a tight smile. _All those expressions._

And how, exactly, was he to proceed? The _John problem_. The fact that Sherlock wasn't good at this sort of thing competing with the fact that it was imperative that John realise Sherlock had been somewhat mistaken about his marital status before the moment John couldn't handle celibacy any longer and began searching for another girlfriend. As long as John knew his intention, John could sort the rest of it out. But without directly saying – and Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that was a possible feet – he was utterly clueless as to how to make it known. 

"How the hell did you guess the password this time?" 

And, really, John was quite, quite perfect. 

o0o0o

Sherlock was actually eating dinner without complaining too much, which was a near miracle in John's eyes, and he had yet to fall into a post-case slump or clam up completely and stop talking. These were probably John's favourite between case moments; when they weren’t running from any murderers but the memory of the case was still fresh in their mind, when the experiments weren’t so obnoxious that John got mad, when Sherlock played John's favourite tunes on the violin instead of murdering it all night, when they weren’t quite bored but not quite in the middle of a thrill either. 

It was a point of oddity that he'd never liked any moment of domesticity with any of his past girlfriends, yet his favourite moments at the moment were sharing meals with Sherlock. 

"And," John said, "it wasn't just the one box of tea bags, Sherlock, it was the _whole flat's supply – "_

" – don't be dramatic, John," Sherlock countered, "I'm sure Mrs Hudson has tea bags." 

"If I replaced all the food you contaminated with Mrs H's groceries we'd have to pay double the rent." 

"I hope that the tea bags weren't that expensive, John." 

"Well, it's not like you'd know," John returned, between forkfuls of pasta, "given you've never gone shopping." 

"I bought the milk." 

"Once," John said, "you bought the milk, _once._ And I'm still not entirely sure why you think we need an eight pint bottle. Unless you were planning on filling up the bath with milk too and making a tub of tea." 

"I assure you, that was not my plan." 

"What was the experiment on then?" 

"Reactions." 

John looked up from his pasta and up at his mad flatmate. 

The trouble was, Sherlock was deadly serious and nonplussed by the whole thing. He actually didn’t see what the problem was with putting over three hundred tea bags in the bath with his shower gel to see how he'll react. And the worst part about it is that John didn't really react when he thought he probably should have been a bit angrier, or at least a bit less amused, and even now all he wanted to do is shake his head, press his fingers into his forehead and laugh. 

"You're reimbursing me for the tea," John said, shaking his head, "God, you're ridiculous." 

o0o0o

Sherlock couldn't sleep due to the continually festering John problem and a stream of texts and missed calls from Lestrade (if he was calling then it was likely that the case was relatively interesting, but Sherlock might have found some way to solve _this_ case – and quickly – so for now Lestrade will have to wait), but there might be a solution. 

There might be something. 

"Did you go to bed, Sherlock?" John asked as he entered the kitchen, predictably flicking on the kettle and jamming several slices of toast into the toaster. 

"John," Sherlock returned, glancing up at him, "I think we should merge bank accounts." 

"What?" 

"Yesterday," Sherlock said, "you said I should reimburse you for the tea." 

"Which is till brewing in our bath, by the way. And I was joking." 

"Yes," Sherlock said, "obvious. _But_ you are correct in saying you do the large majority of the grocery shopping – " 

"- by which you mean all," 

"Yes," Sherlock said, " _all_ the grocery shopping. Cheques from cases are usually directed to me, despite the fact we work together. The end result is that Mycroft continually boosts your bank account when it's looking slightly low, by shifting a proportion of my trust fund." 

"What?" 

"Don't pretend to be surprised," Sherlock said, "I saw you pouring over your last bank statement for thirty minutes trying to work out how you hadn't gone into your overdraft." 

"Okay," John said, ignoring the kettle boiling and instead taking a seat, "so…" 

"So," Sherlock said, "our lives are significantly intertwined to the point where it seems illogical to have things separate. It would be easier in terms of rent, splitting payments from private cases, ensuring equal payments on groceries, reimbursing tea expenses…" 

"Okay," John said, processing this, "but… joint bank accounts. Isn't that a bit…" 

"Well?" 

"Final," John said. 

"Are you planning on leaving?" 

"No," John said, "but… it could get complicated. What if one of us died?" 

"You're the soul benefactor of my will any way," Sherlock shrugged. 

"Oh." 

"And for future reference, my body is to be donated to St Barts." 

"Molly will be pleased," John commented, shaking his head, "finally, she gets your body." 

"Corpse." Sherlock corrected, glancing back towards John and cataloguing his expression. On the whole, although Sherlock didn't think it was a particularly conventional way of expressing interest, Sherlock thought there was a slight chance that it might work. Whilst having a joint bank account didn't exactly tie them together forever, Sherlock thought it showed high enough levels of commitment for John to at least question it. All he needed was for John to reassess. 

Plus, it was a very practical solution to a problem Sherlock had never even considered previously. 

"Sherlock, the will thing…" 

"Not good?" Sherlock asked, glancing up at him. 

"No," John said, slowly, "I just mean… thanks." 

"It's hardly a matter of sentiment," Sherlock returned, eyes still locked together, "previously, having had no one, Mycroft got it all. A singularly excellent reason not to die." 

John wasn't looking away. It was rare for John to openly stare when he thought Sherlock was actually aware of it, so _perhaps_ he had done enough. 

"Well, don't go rushing to off yourself just because I'm here to take your cash." 

"John," Sherlock said, "you are a far more significant reason not to die." 

The moment seemed to settle over them for a few minutes before John, apparently realising that they were _staring at each other,_ looked away, unconsciously shook his head and pursed his lips slightly. 

"Shall we head to the bank, then?" John said, heading back to the kitchen to retrieve his now cold toast and turn on the kettle once more. "Or do you want to clean the tea bags out the bath first?" 

o0o0o

He was quite surprised when he glanced down at his phone to see several missed calls from Lestrade and a bunch of growingly frustrated text messages. They were all asking after Sherlock, of course, summoning him to the scene of a double murder as quickly as possible and, not so politely, telling Sherlock to answer his bloody phone. 

"Sherlock, is your phone flat?" He asked, stepping out onto the pavement, "Lestrade wants you. Seems important." 

The man was already stepping out to the side of the road, hailing a taxi (and of course landing one straight away, as if some sort of magnet for black cabs) and throwing open the door. John only caught 'Chelsea' from Sherlock's list of instructions, rolled his eyes and fired a text message off to Lestrade telling him they're on their way now. 

His thoughts caught on the joint bank account: he'd never been in a relationship serious enough to even consider one and the fact that it was Sherlock… well, he's not entirely sure what to make of the decision, although he doesn't altogether think he's going to regret it. It was practical and he does end up paying most of the taxi fares and the bills and all the rest of it, so now he supposes that isn't an issue. 

Plus, he couldn't possibly have said no when confronting with the fact – once again – that before John, Sherlock had never had anyone he would have considered as a friend, let alone someone to leave money and share a bank account with. It would have seemed almost cruel to say no. Bizarrely, it almost felt like something they should have done ages ago. It didn't feel remotely strange that he now had some legal proof of their strange partnership. 

He supposed that Sherlock didn't quite realise the implications of _'our lives are significantly intertwined to the point where it seems illogical to have things separate'_ and he gets enough people accusing them of coupledom without bringing it up himself (although he can't quite get Sherlock's expression as he said that out of his mind). And he had absolutely no idea how he was going to sail through _joint bank accounts_ whilst still maintaining that they're not shagging. 

"Sherlock," John said, as they traversed through London in the back of a cab – like so many hundreds of times before – "when Lestrade asks where we've been all day, please don't tell them we've been fusing bank accounts. I don't really think the yarders are going to see it as the practical solution that it is, and I think we've given them enough fuel to be going along with." 

Sherlock turned to him, ice blue gaze boring into his skin for a few long seconds, before he nodded and turned back to the window. 

John spent the next few minutes convinced that Sherlock was searching him for something and had the odd feeling of having failed some inexplicable test. Idly, he wondered if this was another of Sherlock's study in reactions. It was possible. To John, the bank accounts seemed like a huge, irreversible moment… but it was hardly a blip in Sherlock's radar. It was just practical. 

Then again, maybe not. With Sherlock it was nearly impossible to tell.


	2. Valentine's Day

Sherlock Holmes, welcome to your first nagging text! If you are confused as to why you have received this text, please refer to the excessive number of post-it notes stuck on the fridge and previous text messages sent from this number. These messages will arrive approximately once an hour. If you wish to unsubscribe to the service 'nagging from John' please complete the following actions: one, text Lestrade and tell him you have Smith's alibi. Two, please remove the cultures from the butter tub. Three, stop ignoring your brother. Four, complete the grocery shopping. – JW 

John. – SH 

John. You obviously have too much time on your hands. Come home. – SH 

I've done the grocery shopping now, so you just concentrate on the other three things :) – JW 

Have you called your brother yet? – JW 

Lestrade? – JW 

How are those cultures? – JW 

Reluctant to move from their current position – SH 

Can you at least label them? I'm fed up of going to make toast and finding myself face to face with your homemade bubonic plague. – JW 

Don't be ridiculous. I wouldn't be able to create the bubonic plague in our fridge – SH 

Not that comforting – JW 

Sherlock Holmes, welcome to your second nagging text! We hope you enjoyed the first. You may unsubscribe from this service at any time, simply complete any of the following actions: one, tell Lestrade about Smith. Two, label cultures. Three, call brother. Thank you for reading! Your next nag will arrive in approximately half an hour! – JW 

Lestrade called me. Have now told him about Smith's alibi. He threatened to block you from the next three serial killers. CALL YOUR BROTHER AND LABEL CULTURES – JW 

Your brother has kidnapped me – JW 

I swear to God, Sherlock, if you haven't relabelled your cultures by the time I get home I will be really pissed off – JW 

What does my brother want? – SH 

HE WANTS YOU TO LABLE YOUR CULTURES 

Don't be immature – SH 

Sherlock Holmes, welcome to your third nag! We are sorry that we are running behind schedule. Please remember that to UNSUBSCRIBE to the INCESANT NAGGING all you have to do is label your cultures. Expect reminders everything fifteen minutes. Thank you. – JW 

Your brother has told me to inform you that he has a case – JW 

Tell him I'm extraordinarily busy labelling my cultures – SH 

I'm going to be home in fifteen minutes. If you haven't labelled your cultures or at LEAST gotten dressed by the time I'm home I'm banning you from conducting experiments in the Kitchen. – JW 

Sherlock Holmes, this is your five minutes warning! Remember, to unsubscribe from PISSED OFF JOHN you must label your cultures in the next five minutes – JW 

John – SH 

Yes? – JW 

The cultures have spread – SH 

If that's not a joke about spreadable butter I'm not going to happy – JW 

The fridge is currently a toxic environment, John. Put grocery shopping in Mrs H's fridge. Also, please purchase more biohazard bags. – SH 

WHAT DID YOU DO? – JW 

I was attempting to label the cultures – SH 

o0o0o 

"Man's been stabbed multiple times, mostly to the groin, found here earlier this morning..." Lestrade said as Sherlock stepped onto the scene, John following in his wake, "we all want to get home, Sherlock, so if you could work some of your usual magic." 

Sherlock stepped forwards, towards the body, and began his usual business of looking a bit too intently at the bloodied corpse and somehow coming up with a life story. 

"John, how long has he been dead?" John had assumed his solider stance and was pointedly not looking in Sherlock's direction. "For goodness sake," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes to the ceiling, "Detective Inspector, ask John for a time of death." 

"Sorry, what -" 

"- John isn't talking to me," Sherlock interjected. 

"What have you done this time, Freak?" Donovan interjected, glancing between the two of them looking vaguely amused. The Yarders always found the little snippets of domesticity that snuck through to crime scenes either disturbing or incredibly amusing – usually, when it was at the expense of Sherlock, everyone seemed to want to hear the whole story. 

"Obviously, he hasn't _said_." 

"He _contaminated_ our fridge," John said, heatedly, "I had to put all the leftovers in _biohazard_ bags." 

"Time of death?" Sherlock prompted. 

Lestrade sighed. "We could really do with cleaning this up quickly, John," 

John seemed to concede the point and stepped forwards, examining the body with his usual detachment. "I'd say since about yesterday evening." 

"Thank you, John." 

"I'm not helping _you,_ Sherlock," John said, straightening up, "Got plans, then?" 

"Not me," Greg said, "but I promised the team I'd try and get them home at a reasonable hour." 

"I suspect I'll be spending the evening restocking the fridge." 

"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock muttered, checking the pockets of the dead man, "we have groceries. They're in Mrs Hudson's fridge." 

"Nothing that makes a meal, Sherlock. I know you tend to delusion yourself from the process of cooking but it tends to involve more than milk, ham and pesto." 

"It's not my fault you bought inadequate groceries." 

"No," John said, "but it's _your fault_ that the food we were going to eat with that is now in a _biohazard disposal unit._ " 

"I thought you weren't speaking to me?" 

"When I murder him," John said, turning to Lestrade, "please let me off with aggravated assault." 

Lestrade grinned. 

"John's just in a bad mood due to a ridiculous preoccupation with the date, which by the look of how many caffeinated drinks you've consumed, Lestrade, is _shared._ It's revenge from some form of sexual assault," Sherlock continued, "probably within an abusive relationship due to the date – premeditated emotionally charged attack. Look for the fiancé. Should be five foot seven, red haired, wears glasses. If not, text me. Doubtful any similar attack will be made, so feel free to let your _Team_ get back to their dates." 

"Sherlock," John said, "it's Valentine's Day. I'm not _twelve._ I'm mad because the fridge has to be fumigated for a week when you _assured me_ there was nothing dangerous in those petri dishes." 

"I tried to explain that they _weren't_ dangerous until you contaminated the experiment by – " 

" – And I tried to explain that you're a tosser who I'm not talking to." 

"And you're doing an _excellent_ job, too." 

"Domestic aside," Lestrade interjected, glancing between them, "anything else to add, Sherlock?" 

"Only a request that you stop _wasting my time._ Even you could have worked this one out – " 

"- wasn't aware you had anything on." 

"Likely more than you, Detective Inspector. How is your ex-wife?" Sherlock asked, his expression twisting into the cruel twist of his lips that made John want to throw something at him. 

"Sherlock," John said, "are you being more of an arse on purpose or did you inhale part of your experiment? Sorry, Greg, don't know _what's_ got into him. We're going home. You're going to apologise to Mrs Hudson and _pay your rent_ then you're going to call your brother like I asked you to last week, because frankly I'm fed up of being kidnapped, and then _you_ are going to ensure we're both able to eat tonight." 

" _Our_ rent," Sherlock corrected, pulling his coat around him as he turned away from the scene, unaffected, and continued walking. He slowed temporarily to hold up the crime scene tape, giving John just enough time to slip under it before releasing it. 

"What is _up_ with you today?" John asked as Sherlock hailed a taxi. "Anyone would think you were the one getting your knickers in a twist about Valentine's Day." 

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock muttered, climbing into the taxi, "Baker Street." 

"Well, obviously not," John said, "but it'd be nice if you could at least _try_ and be nice to Lestrade, given he's the one who allows you onto crime scenes." 

"Spare me the lecture, John," Sherlock muttered, turning to the window and shutting down. Quite clearly cutting off all channels of communication for the foreseeable future. 

John sighed and turned to his own side of the taxi, wishing he had somewhere to storm off too. Sherlock was being considerably more insufferable than he had been recently and he definitely needed some space right now. 

o0o0o0o 

The second they arrived in Baker Street, Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom and slammed the door behind him. John rolled his eyes and yelled _'god damn petulant toddler'_ at the closed door before falling into the sofa. 

John _was_ irritated about Valentine's Day (of course, even when he was very very wrong Sherlock was still impossibly _somehow_ right), but not because he was alone. John was irritated because, after one bad date too many, he'd written off the whole institution of dating for the foreseeable future and decided that Sherlock was _enough_ to not warrant any romantic relationships; he couldn't see his future spanning out _without_ the man and, besides, he was enjoying spending so much time with him and – as Sherlock said before – entwining their lives together to the extent that he'd rather not have the distraction. 

Of course, there were drawbacks. At least having girlfriends allowed him to hold onto to the last resemblance of normality (which he'd needed for a while, before he'd given into the sheer madness) and then there was the whole _celibacy_ issue which was, really, a bit of an issue... but it was okay. He was _managing._

So it would have been nice for the day to upturn some sort of proof that putting up with Sherlock was worth it (which it was, of course it was), but with the day he'd just had... well, he had to entertain the possibility of rethinking his current life plan. 

He didn't want to deal with other relationships other than Sherlock, but he didn't think he could put up with his antics forever without going utterly crazy. 

John took a deep breath and decided that he was definitely _not_ going to clean the kitchen, put the television on and concluded that he couldn't spend the whole of Valentine's Day internally debating his relationship with Sherlock without the man realising what he was thinking about and coming to the wrong conclusions. 

o0o0o0o 

Sherlock laid face down on his bed feeling increasingly frustrated at everything: mostly, he was irritated at the incapacity of anything to go _right._ The prospect of Valentine's Day – clearly the most ridiculous of all the stupid traditions people seemed unable to see past – and his new found determination to somehow _show_ John that his marital status was questionable had driven him to near _obsessing_ over somehow ensuring that they did something. 

Of course, after he'd finally decided the easiest thing to trick John into was dinner (they went out for meals all the time and they were frequently misconstrued by others as dates), he than faced the problem of somehow making sure that going out for dinner was necessary. He couldn't exactly just suggest the idea unless he feigned ignorance about the whole date in question... which had been his original plan until Mrs Hudson had brought them scones and said 'Happy Valentine's Day, boys.' 

John had snorted and rolled his eyes, declared he had a lot of errands to run and _left._ Sherlock had frozen on the sofa wondering _how_ he was going to be able to pull the whole business off. 

Mycroft had been spying on him again, had somehow gotten wind of the fact that he'd made reservations at a restaurant and kept trying to call him in attempt to gloat and make fun of him (and the Mycroft issue in regard to the John Problem would require a whole separate part of his brain to deal with and, certainly, Sherlock wasn't about to start dealing with _that_ when none of the rest of it was sorted out). 

Then he'd kidnapped John again, which meant he was at his brother's mercy once more – you do a case for me and I won't mention to John that you've _booked a reservation at a restaurant and not mentioned it to him._

He'd had to pretend to contaminate the fridge (even though his cultures were genuinely harmless) which had put John in a _very_ bad mood, and now _he_ was in a bad mood and the prospect of having to leave the flat and sit through dinner was near-repulsive. 

John hadn't even realised his intentions yet and, already, Sherlock was managing to screw up. _Really._ How could people be expected to participate in relationship politics and complicated social interactions like this? Sherlock _hated_ it and wanted nothing more than to pass over all control to John, stay in his bed and hopefully at some point John would just join him and that would be that. 

_This_ was the sort of the mood that needed to be chased away with some form of high – nicotine at least, but preferably some sort of adrenaline case high... and that wasn't going to happen. He was going to be stuck in this place with no mental stimulation and the growing awareness that his plans were not working. 

Sherlock forced himself to stand up, cross over to his bedroom door and spill out into the sitting room. 

"John, we're going out for dinner." 

"Are we?" 

"Yes, get dressed. We're leaving in ten minutes." 

"I didn't realise you'd turned dictator." 

"You _instructed me_ to ensure we both ate." 

"Oh," John said, "and I suppose you've also paid the rent and called your bother? No? Thought not." 

"Ten minutes." Sherlock repeated, falling into the arm chair and closing his eyes shut. If only there was a possible way to _think_ himself out of this mental state – a way stop his brain from continually overloading and tearing itself to pieces with it's never ending streams of _observations and what-does-that-means._

"You all right?" 

"Fine," Sherlock spat, opening his eyes in order to send his flatmate a look. 

It _definitely_ wasn't going to plan. 

"Okay," John said, rolling his eyes and disappearing to get dressed. He didn't much feel like dealing with Sherlock when he was in _this_ mood, let alone escorting him out the house and to a public place (where, invariably, there were always a larger number of people that Sherlock could possibly offend), but the idea of dinner with Sherlock was slightly preferable to allowing the man to deal with one of his black moods on his own. 

Besides, normally Sherlock retreated to Baker Street when he was in this much of a mad mood, choosing only to throw insults at him, the television, Mrs Hudson, and possibly Lestrade and/or his brother via the phone... and John ended up forcibly dragging him on walks and out of the four walls of their apartment... so this was progress. This was good. 

It was slightly unfortunate that it happened to be _Valentine's Day_ but, being Sherlock, he probably didn't see the implications of it. That, or he just didn't care. 

o0o0o0o 

"What?" Sherlock demanded, glancing up from his menu feeling increasingly irritated. 

"Thinking too loudly?" John prompted, rolling his eyes again, "how did you get a table at _this_ restaurant on _Valentine's Day_ two hours in advance?" 

"Oh," Sherlock said, glancing around the admittedly fairly nice restaurant, "I prevented it being shut down several years ago." 

And he'd made the request the day before yesterday (still short notice, but not quite that extreme), after a lengthy bout of deduction over what sort of food John wanted to eat – but that wasn't a detail he was prepared to share _ever._

"What happened?" 

"They fired the Chef for coming into work drunk; he decided to get revenge by planting several dead rats in the freezer the day before a health and safety inspection, I was able to prove that the ex-chef had put them there." 

"Doesn't sound like your sort of case," John said, glancing up from his starter, "not many corpses." 

"Well, it was a private case before I'd met Lestrade. I needed the money." 

"As a man who has a joint bank account with you," John said, "I struggle to believe that." 

"Mycroft controls the amount of access I have to my trust fund," Sherlock returned, putting his own fork down after one attempt at eating his starter (it wasn't that it wasn't a nice starter, but the whole concept of food at the moment was hateful – he could barely think as it was, but with the added _fullness_ of food he'd be completely suffocated), "Apparently, cocaine wasn't an appropriate way for the money to be spent." 

"Ah," John said, glancing up at the man and taking in his expression, "so that was funded... how?" 

"The same way every addict funds an addiction." 

"Do you have a criminal record?" John asked, all thoughts about his starter temporarily abandoned. He'd seen his fair share of drug addicts whilst working as a doctor, and the majority of them had some black mark against their name – theft, possession... He found it difficult to connect the idea of _those_ addicts with Sherlock, though. Sherlock was a _genius._ Sherlock was the slightly mad but unquestionably _brilliant_ man that John privately intended to spend the rest of his life solving crimes with. 

"I used to." 

"What...? Mycroft." John said, lips twisting upwards into a smile. "Obviously. Does your brother never butt out?" 

"No," Sherlock said, scowling, "Lestrade arrested me." 

_"Lestrade?"_ John grinned. "Sorry, sorry... it's just, he's never mentioned that. What did he arrest you for?" 

"Possession, the first time," Sherlock said, trying very hard to resist the urge to smile now, "the second time, it was for tampering with a crime scene. He was _very_ confused that all records of the first arrest had disappeared. He was halfway through accusing _me_ of changing police records – that was after I started working with him, he was just in a bad mood because I got to the crime scene before him, but he didn't think it was beyond my capabilities – before Mycroft stepped in." 

"Lestrade knows Mycroft?" John asked, grinning outright this time. 

"He abducted you within hours of our first meeting, John, I'd known Lestrade for years." 

"Of course," John said, shaking his head slightly, "sorry, I hadn't thought." 

"Obviously," Sherlock said, catching his flatmate's eye and almost smiling again, "Lestrade was suitably horrified, which is an appropriate reaction to my brother. He doesn't mention it because it's not on the records and he doesn't want Donovan or Anderson to go digging." 

"I'll have to talk to him about his most elaborate instance of kidnapping," John said, thoughtfully, "and his thoughts on what could _possibly_ be built into his umbrella." 

"I've told you," Sherlock said impatiently, "it's _just_ an umbrella." 

"Come on," John said, "there's got to at _least_ be some sort of sword built in. A nice gun." 

"Your conspiracy theories are ridiculous." 

"Says the man who contaminated our fridge," John grinned, "am I to take the nice meal as an apology?" 

"Take from it what you will," Sherlock said, glancing up at John and catching his eye. He hoped that John would just _think._ It was obvious that a favour done _years_ ago didn't quite constitute as a table mere hours in advance on one of the busiest days of the year, obvious that he wouldn't have allowed John to accidentally contaminate his cultures (in keeping with Sherlock's story of how it had come about), _blindingly_ obvious that a takeaway was a more obvious solution to the problem of _where to eat dinner._

"I'll take the rest of your starter too, if I will," John said, "although if you're not going to eat, it seems a bit illogical to go out for a meal." 

"I'm here for the company." 

"Right," John said, raising his eyebrows, "thanks for the meal, anyway Sherlock." 

"We have a joint bank account," Sherlock said, his bad mood seeming to blossom again thanks to John's damn blindness, "we're both paying." 

"Thanks for the company then," John said, "I suppose spending Valentine's Day in a nice restaurant with my PMSing dick of a best mate is marginally better than spending it watching Eastenders alone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: in which Sherlock gives up on John's brain and aims to capture the attention of something else.


	3. Underdressed

"You finished sulking then?" John asked, glancing at an _actually and legitimately_ dressed Sherlock. Ever since Sherlock had accidentally turned their fridge into a biohazard, Sherlock had been utterly insufferable; a dressing gown clad lump had been a permanent presence in the sitting room, teamed with a bad attitude and the usual flurry of insults and barb. 

"I don't _sulk._ " 

"Of course not," John said, "case?" 

"Always." 

"Anything I can help with?" 

"Not this time," Sherlock returned, glancing up from John's laptop to meet his gaze, "ongoing experiment from the results of my cultures." 

"And by results you mean wanton destruction?" John said, "Well, try not kill both of us, would you?" 

"I'll add avoiding death to my list of concerns," 

"Thanks," John said, "I appreciate it. I'm heading into town to meet Stamford. You need anything?" 

"Hydrochloric acid and a pair of tweezers." 

"Not going to happen," John said, "I'll bring back some food too, assuming you're eating again?" 

"No." 

"Well, we can argue about that later." 

"I'll look forward to it," Sherlock returned, waiting for John to cross the floor and close the door behind him. 

Obviously, his plan hadn't been working well thus far, but that was fine because at last he had an idea. 

John often felt the need to comment on the way others viewed their relationship (Sherlock had long since classified that as an over awareness of the implications of their behaviour), particularly whenever they were in a mildly compromising position – it was in those moments when John had to _think_ about their relationship more, because those actions and behaviours usually occurred so naturally and normally that then John had to justify it to himself, and Sherlock, out loud by some irrelevant and usually irritating comment. 

Depending on the compromising situation, of course, because it couldn't be denied that sex factored into John's motivations a significant amount... so, it was just a matter of enough compromising or potentially sexual position to get John _rethinking._

Then, he might finally twig about the Valentine's Day issue and the joint bank accounts. John was usually fairly literate at understanding the subtext Sherlock preferred to communicate by, if only he was paying attention properly. 

And now John was successfully out of the flat Sherlock had room to _plot_ without John being distracting and altogether present. 

(He'd ruined his cultures after pretending to contaminate the fridge, anyway). 

0o0o0

Sherlock could not exactly be described as a modest man. 

In fact, usually the first insult after something that generally pertained to Sally Donovan's 'freak' or Anderson's 'psychopath' was something along the lines of arrogance or a superiority complex. John was much more likely to let the second insult stick, because it was fair to say that Sherlock's default position of assuming _everyone_ was an idiot and unimportant unless proven otherwise was annoying and probably deserved to be criticised somewhat. 

Of course there was reasoning behind it. Before there was John, who saw the beauty and the merit in Sherlock's long stream of deductions, there were only people telling him to piss off, so it was probably a choice between extreme arrogance or having no one _whatsoever_ listening to him. The man was a genius and deserved credit accordingly... at least as much as he deserved to take the blame when he was being completely idiotic, anyway. And it was fair to say that, often, Sherlock's brain didn't quite get the credit it deserved. 

However, there was one part of himself that Sherlock had very little respect for – his body. Drugs aside, there were still the refusals to eat or sleep and his continual determination to ignore the basic things his body actually _needed_. For a long time in John's let's-try-to-work-out-Sherlock-Holmes thought process he'd been caught on the issue wardrobe; to John, it seemed that anyone who insisted on suits that expensive must set something in store with vanity, which didn't seem to align with the general lack of awareness or care for what his body did, needed or looked like. 

He still hadn't quite got an answer for that one. His filler answer was a bit of speculation over leftover childhood standards and finding that looking good usually helped with dealing with people. Certainly, it was helpful with manipulating Molly and what not... Either way, John had added it onto the list of things he was, one day, going to ask Sherlock when the opportunity arose. 

Now did not seem like the opportune moment. 

Why on earth had Sherlock suddenly decided that clothing was unnecessary in the flat? 

If this was another study in sodding reactions, John was sure Sherlock's conclusion would be absolutely bloody illuminating... but _really?_

Admittedly, he wasn't _completely_ naked but the usual cocoon of sheet and dressing gown had been replaced by a barely decent who-cares-if-all-my-top-half-and-most-of-my-legs-a re-on-show situation which John was entirely sure he was _not_ okay with. 

"Sherlock," John said, hovering in the doorway and wondering whether his slightly strained voice was indicative of a little more than he wanted to reveal, "if you're handling dangerous chemicals, shouldn't you be _wearing_ more?" 

"Why?" Sherlock asked, turning away from his test tube to glare at him. 

John briefly considering trying very hard to look like a man who hadn't been fancying a cup of tea, who'd found his almost entirely naked flatmate sat at the kitchen table and had then proceeded to stare at the flatmate for a largely inappropriate period of time before realising that his flatmate had probably chosen this moment to turn his John-sensor up onto high. There was an almost zero percent chance that Sherlock wasn't highly aware that John was staring. 

God, the man was annoying. 

"I hardly think I'm at risk of spilling anything." 

"You're not infallible," John muttered, finally forcing himself to step forward and beyond the view of _goddamn Sherlock Holmes_ , "and you wouldn't get any sympathy from me." 

"That's a lie, Doctor," Sherlock said, "you seem incapable of apathy," 

"If anyone could push me to it," John muttered, flicking on the kettle and taking a deep breath before looking _back_ in Sherlock's direction. "You've lost weight since last time you paraded around in a sheet." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"Sherlock, I'm serious. You need to eat." 

Last time this sort of thing had happened (although, admittedly, that had been less of an exhibitionist moment), Sherlock's ribs had _definitely_ been less obvious through his skin. John wasn't sure how Sherlock losing weight could have slipped past him so easily, but he was almost completely decided on taking it as a personal insult. 

Sherlock looked sufficiently irritated. 

"What?" John asked, as he checked the teapot to make sure it didn't have anything decomposing in it, "Did you want me to tell you your chest looks pretty and ignore the alarming display of your ribcage?" 

"I was hardly expecting a medical examination." 

"I wasn't expecting nudity," John said, "did you want a cup of tea?" 

"Fine." 

"You're having breakfast too, no arguments." 

"The bread's three days past its best before date." Sherlock returned, finally turning away from staring at John and back to whatever it was he was doing with his test tubes. John could see his muscles moving as he turned and decided that he could just pass off his indecent starting as medical interest and not bothering to drag his gaze back to the kettle. 

"Why didn't you tell me that before I went to Tesco's yesterday?" 

"You went to Tesco's yesterday?" 

"Wonderful," John said, turning back to the kettle and resisting the strong urge to roll his eyes. Apparently he'd been slacking on keeping the flat functional lately, because all the cups were in the washing up pile and it hadn't even occurred to him to check the date on the bread. "Never mind," John said, inspecting the top slice of the loaf of bread before hastily chucking the lot away, "I'll just get the bread out the freezer." 

"Defrosted it." 

"Why?" 

"It took up too much room. It's on the shelf above the kettle." 

John poured two cups of tea. 

"It's remarkable," 

"What is?" Sherlock asked, turning away from his test tubes to face him. 

"The length you'll go to to _avoid_ breakfast," John said, "when anyone with two brain cells could work out the way to avoid the nagging is to make sure your Doctor-flatmate doesn't have a visual reminder of how skinny you are around a meal time." Sherlock sent him a look before returning back to his experiment. "We're going out for breakfast," John said, "I'm thinking a fry up." 

"No." 

"One, two, three..." 

"Are you _timing_ me?" 

"No Sherlock," John said, taking a sip of his tea, "I'm counting your ribs." 

"One would assume you would _know,_ Doctor." 

"Oh don't mind me, I'm just observing," John said, pointedly, "seven, eight, nine..." 

"Fine," Sherlock said, "this needs to be undisturbed for several hours anyway. I'd rather not have you ruin another experiment by faffing around the kitchen." 

"If by faffing you mean _cooking_ then I'd like to draw your attention to the function of a kitchen. A place for Sherlock to sit around feeling clever with no clothes on is not in the job description." 

Sherlock made a big fuss about rearranging his sheet far too overdramatically (but, at least, the rest of Sherlock's modesty/John's sanity was preserved during the process) before all but _strutting_ out the kitchen and into his bathroom. 

In some respects, it was a shame that nagging would probably result in clothing in the foreseeable future but John was entirely convinced his frayed nerves couldn't deal with facing another naked Sherlock. Besides, there was only so much medical interest John could feasibly show. 

0o0o0o0

"This better be good," Sherlock said to a rain-sodden Lestrade as he burst onto the crime scene, scarf firmly in place around his neck and cheekbones as illustrious as ever. For reasons as of yet undetermined, Sherlock was now acting even more peculiar than normal: honestly, every time John thought he'd worked the man out Sherlock managed to surprise him all over again. 

Still, it was nice to have him _talking_ again. 

"He's in the midst of a fascinating experiment in trying my patience," John supplied, smiling as he followed his flatmate under the police tape and into the recently deceased property of the unfortunate Mrs Williamson. "He didn't explain?" 

Didn't explain was a euphemism for abandoned breakfast and ran to the nearest cab. 

"Jessica Williamson, 42, married. Cause of death currently unknown, although Anderson says –" 

"– something boring and likely incorrect, as usual," Sherlock interrupted, "upstairs, I presume?" 

"Yes," Lestrade muttered, shaking his head slightly as Sherlock disappeared, "oh, after you John," he added, "go enjoy yourself." 

"Thanks," John muttered, wondering when it became normal for 'enjoy yourself' to be acceptable phrasing when walking straight into another murder, and tracing it back to _'and I said danger and here you are'_ and writing off all further lines of enquiry. Sherlock Holmes had a lot to answer for. 

"I'd rather you didn't contaminate the crime scene," Anderson was saying as John entered the room with the body. 

"And I'd rather you lost the ability to speak, Anderson, but we don't always get what we want. Besides, it's not like I'd get that chance after you've _ruined it_ before I arrived." 

"Now now," John muttered, fully expecting to be ignored as per. 

"She's was in financial trouble," Sherlock said, "do you know the whereabouts of her son?" 

"Her...?" Lestrade began, before cutting himself off, "we haven't been able to contact him. The husband said they haven't been in contact with him for a few years." 

"Wrong," Sherlock said, "Name?" 

"Stephen," Lestrade said, "ran off with his girlfriend, drugs, husband didn't seem to have where abouts he'd be. Is he lying? Do I need to question him again?" 

"No," Sherlock said, "the son was only in contact with the mother." 

"So the son did this?" 

"No," Sherlock said, "but we need to find him. John..." Sherlock trailed off, whirling around and heading back down the stairs and out onto the street. 

It was still raining, which didn't exactly bode well for the day ahead. It was one of the few occasions where John was legitimately thankful for Sherlock's cab-obsession. 

0o0o0o0o

The rain had moved from being classified as heavy as some form of obesity, and John was wet to the bone. 

Before a few seconds ago, it had barely registered how honestly wet he was due to being far too caught up in the pursuit of the illusive Stephen Williams. Having talked to what felt like a vast majority of the homeless network, Sherlock had finally managed to locate the girlfriend, only for that to kick start its own wild goose chase. 

And they'd found him. And, of course the boy had started to _run_ and so _of course_ that had led to a good twenty minutes chase, through the rain, through a part of London he'd honestly have preferred to avoid. And none of this had even remotely bothered him until, approximately ten seconds ago, John had slipped, twisted his ankle, fallen and become intimately acquainted with the pavement. 

John swore and peeled himself _off_ the pavement. 

"Sherlock?" John questioned the alleyway, not really surprised at the silence that answered him. Sherlock had been in front (which John was blaming on the man's bloody long legs) and probably wouldn't notice John wasn't there until he'd caught up with Stephen Williams, but it didn't make him feel better to realise that he was alone along with wet and in a fair amount of pain. 

He experimentally moved his ankle and was reward with a stabbing sensation. John closed his eyes. Whilst injuries weren't uncommon in their line of work, usually the mishaps were the result of something a little more glamorous than slipping over... and he'd really rather not be sat in a distinctly wet alleyway unable to move his foot, getting progressively wetter (if that was possible) thanks to the onslaught of the rain. 

John removed his phone from his pocket, leaned over it to prevent it getting more wet and began the process of trying to persuade his fingers that they weren't too cold to send a text message. In a minute, he'd use the wall to help him actually stand up, stumble to the main road and hope to God there was a taxi driver that would take pity on him. _Fallen over, can't walk, heading back to Baker Street – JW_

"John?" 

"Here," John called out, shoving his phone back in his pocket, "I'm here." 

"Are you all right?" 

Sherlock looked just as wet as John felt, not to mention utterly ridiculous with his hair plastered across his face and suit stuck to his skin. John was so relieved to see the man he wasn't entirely sure he could put the feeling into words. 

"Fine," John said, "just slipped. Where's Stephen Williams?" 

"Gone," Sherlock said, "do you need...?" 

"Just a hand up," John said, "just sprained my ankle. Not sure if I can walk." 

Between Sherlock and the wall, John managed to struggle up into a standing position and test out putting weight on his ankle. It hurt. 

"I'll text Lestrade," Sherlock said. 

John wasn't sure what it was. Possibly, it was the fact that Sherlock had been parading around mostly naked that morning. It could have been because their sodden clothes were so wet they seemed nothing more than a second skin, or maybe the fact that a soaked-Sherlock looked much more vulnerable (and therefore less imposing) than normal. Whatever it was, the whole situation made John feel slightly wrong footed. 

Sherlock had an arm around his waist so that he could actually walk. The physical contact wasn't quite out of the ordinary, really, but John was very aware of the single layer of wet shirt that was preventing skin to skin contact. 

Usually, John was able to detangle his decision to let his whole life revolve around the man, his wish that they remain friends until they were elderly and the fact that he thought Sherlock was attractive and magnetic and occasionally charming (and also a complete dick of course); in his head, these were completely separate issues that didn't need to be thought upon. 

Sherlock didn't want that and that wasn't a problem. 

John didn't think his sprained ankle was that bad that he couldn't stand up on his own, yet he was most definitely allowing Sherlock to take half of his weight. He felt oddly _solid_ with Sherlock's arm wrapped around him in support. There was something protective and _important_ about the arm that was holding him up, and it wasn't a touch that he particularly wanted to step away from any time soon. 

Regardless of the fact that he was sure they'd never looked _more_ like a couple. 

Lestrade arrived, Donovan made some suggestive comment and Sherlock helped him into the back of the car. 

All he really wanted was for Sherlock to show _some_ form of physical affection. It didn't even have to be in the realms of the sexual at this point, he just wanted a hug (probably, this was a side effect of having been single for a bit too long)... although, frankly, it was easier to place Sherlock in a sexual relationship than one that involved cuddles. __

_God._

Sherlock was explaining about Stephen Williams (given he'd done the typical Sherlockian thing and ran off without telling the police anything) and Lestrade was pissed off. 

His train of thought was stupid. Even if they were _together_ (more than they were at the moment, given they were most decidedly together in most aspects of the word), it wasn't like John could shuffle to the middle seat of the car and rest his head on the man's shoulder like he sincerely wanted to. They were in a police car in front of people that were, for all intents and purposes, their work colleagues. 

Thankfully, no one seemed to mind that he wasn't engaging in conversation. 

He could never envision a way that he and Sherlock in a physical relationship would actually work. That was one of the main reasons why he never let himself get too preoccupied by the idea of it; Sherlock liked to think of himself as a sociopath, was barely capable of friendship, had shown virtually no interest in sex in the time John had known him and had told him, straight off, that he was married to his work. He couldn't _feasibly_ see Sherlock willingly share a bed with anyone or kissing him good morning before running off to the mortuary. Sherlock's idea of an apology involved telling him that although he was an idiot, he was an idiot that at least inspired intelligence in other people (namely himself). The man thought it was acceptable to manipulate people and situations to his advantage. The man's idea of showing affection was not smoking indoors on request and removing rotting organs after a blazing row over the things _growing_ in the toaster. In John's head, Sherlock and an actual relationship came up with a massive _do not compute_ sign and that was that. 

Of course, that didn't do away with the excess of _feelings_ but without any future to pin them too, they just existed alongside their friendship. That was fine by John, really, because he'd only just got to grips with the lack of normalcy involved in _that_. 

"We're home," Sherlock said, pulling John out of his reverie. 

"And don't think I'm not serious," Lestrade said, "I won't allow you in on cases unless you keep me updated." 

"Yes," Sherlock said, "and we'll see where that leaves you." 

Sherlock, for reasons unknown, hadn't yet forgotten that John couldn't work and _actually_ pulled open the car door and held out his arm for support. 

John felt slightly dizzy and he didn't think it had anything to do with the pain in his ankle. 

He was possibly having another identity crisis. He'd dealt with the issue of sexuality long ago, and shortly after he'd had to come to terms with the fact that his significant other for the foreseeable future was a consulting dickhead with an attitude problem, then the fact that the prospect of spending his life with former mentioned consulting dickhead thrilled him. 

This was something different. 

"I can probably make it up the stairs," John muttered, because the arm around his waist was much too nice for him to able to withstand without wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and embracing the man. 

Sherlock ignored him. Obviously. 

It was only when they'd hobbled up the entire staircase that John realised what was bothering him so much. 

_Sherlock had noticed he was gone mid chase, stopped and come back for him._

0o0o0o0

"I've only sprained my ankle, Sherlock. It's not permanent damage. You don't have to make me tea." Sherlock didn't answer that. "And you need to take those wet clothes off or _you'll_ be sick." 

"Really, John, you spend half the day trying to get me in clothes and now -" 

"- yeah, now I'm asking you to strip. What would the papers say?" 

"Very little of anything important," Sherlock said, "fine, I'm going to shower." 

John took a sip of his tea, which was questionable (as far as John was concerned, being a genius didn't mean you had the capacity to make a decent cuppa) before glancing down at his ankle. 

For some indiscernible reason, his makeshift icepack was beginning to drip a suspicious coloured liquid through the towel it was wrapped in. As usual with this sort of thing, John was entirely sure it was Sherlock's doing. 

"Sherlock," John called towards the bathroom, "what the hell did you use for this ice pack?" 

Sherlock reappeared in the sitting room, back to his previous state of underdressed (ie, naught but a towel), and looking far too please that the situation warranted it. If John didn't know better, he'd have thought that the man was doing it on purpose. 

Certainly, most days did not permit so much nakedness/tight clothing/tight wet clothing. 

"It was a choice between the sheep's bladder and the bag of frozen fingers," Sherlock said. 

John glanced down at his ankle. The ice really _was_ helping and, given it had already been out of the freezer for a good hour, he wasn't sure either could be re-frozen. Besides, Sherlock had sacrificed one of his experiments in the name of pain relief which, from Sherlock, was really quite sweet. 

"In which case, please don't tell me which it is. What happened to the frozen peas?" 

"I had to throw them away." 

"Of course you did," John muttered, "and there was nothing else in the freezer?" 

"Nothing dispensable," 

"You should have put that on the list of thing potential flatmates should know about each other," John said, watching the suspicious coloured liquid bleed through the towel. He made a note to make sure there were always ice packs in the fridge at all times. And to burn the towel. 

"Any other things you think you should know about me?" 

"The list is endless," John said, glancing over at his best friend and being reminded that he was still mostly naked. Wonderful. Exactly what he needed. 

"Oh?" 

"Go shower, Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes and decidedly putting the TV on, "and try to remember to get dressed when you're finished. People will talk." 


	4. Flirting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sherlock flirts...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one took a little while! I was at the beach and without internet, but I'm back now so the chapter after this should take a day or two.

Lestrade was in a bad mood. 

His wife – well, ex-wife, was being particularly uncooperative and continuing to incessantly phone him and make mildly degrading comments about how _'this was why it was never going to work, Greg. You never made time for me. Even now I barely touch your list of priorities '_ despite the fact that she was the one sleeping with the PE teacher. Donovan and Anderson's rather stupid affair had finally caused the complications it was threatening to cause ever since Sherlock called them out on it, meaning the crime scene would have been bloody awful even if it _hadn't_ been a really nasty attack on a young woman – barely out of her teens – found naked, bruised and all but ruined in an area that really should have been quite safe. 

Sherlock was the only one unaffected by the violence of crimes like this and if he'd been less of a masochist he wouldn't have invited him long at all – but Sherlock got results, and he never wanted results more than when presented with something like this. They needed Sherlock because, for all that they could do this job without him, Sherlock was fast. And if that meant some other teenage girl wasn't attacked and raped and murdered, then they better bloody put up with him being such a dick. 

Thus was the speech he'd delivered to his less than impressed colleagues earlier that morning, and they'd fallen back on an irritated silence ever since; punctuated only by an exchange of insults with Sherlock and dark looks at each other. 

"They think they've found her," Lestrade said, slipping his phone back in his pocket, "parents reported a girl of the same description missing a few hours ago." 

"Art student, first year, living with parents?" Sherlock asked, crouched next to the poor girl's body with his sharp blue eyes pointed towards him. 

"Yeah," Lestrade said, "Lucy Griffin. Last heard from at about ten last night." 

"John," Sherlock said, "look at her arms." 

"What am I looking for?" John asked, crouching to Sherlock's level and seeming suitably discomforted by the situation. Sometimes it seemed that John was just as unmoved by it all as Sherlock – as Anderson liked to comment on daily – and Lestrade was always forced to remind him that they didn't go home crying at the end of every day. You got on with it and you did your job, and it haunted you until you'd put someone away for it, and then you could lay the life to rest and leave the mourning to the families – that was the way they worked. 

"Bruising," Sherlock said, hand moving through the air – not touching her – but drawing out the line of her arm through the space above it. 

"There's… there's not much." 

"No." 

"So…" John said swallowing, "she wasn't restrained. So this… so it was after she was killed?" 

"It would seem so," Sherlock said, standing up and glancing once more at the scene, "he grabbed her shoulder here… blow to the head, she fell – hence the blood – and then stripped her –" 

"– that's enough, Sherlock." John interjected, cutting him off with a single look. 

Lestrade had always liked Sherlock. He couldn't quite pin down _why,_ but he had a feeling it was partially because he'd walked in at the worst moment – drug addled Sherlock, clearly a genius, clearly killing himself slowly, still managed to find his way onto a crime scene, emotionally derail all his superiors and prove himself _better_ than the lot of them. It hurt a bit to think back to when Sherlock was vulnerable and angry and, some of the time, Lestrade didn't even blame him for it. 

However, he couldn't deny that life wasn't a million times easier now John was on the scene to tell him when to shut up. 

"Is there a chance of a repeat attack?" Lestrade asked. 

"Possibly," Sherlock said, "check to see if there have been any other similar attacks." 

"Of course," Greg Lestrade nodded. 

"John –" Sherlock said, with all the intention of a man just about to disappear. John didn't seem as unmoved as normal – slightly distracted – and pulled his gaze back to Sherlock with more determination than normal. For the large part, John's attention seemed to follow Sherlock naturally. 

"Nope," Lestrade interjected, "I need both of you at Scotland Yard." 

"You have no _hope_ of catching this killer unless, by chance, his DNA happens to be on the database, Lestrade, and nothing I can say _now_ makes that any likelier – " 

" – you were supposed to come into the Yard after the Rupert Guernsey case," Lestrade interrupted, "at the minute, my paper work has a gaping hole where you're deductions are supposed to be, Sherlock, and given you ran off before you could fill me in – " 

"– I was _busy."_

"You're not busy now," Lestrade said, "I can't let you into cases unless you tell me how you solved them, Sherlock." 

"We'll follow in a cab," John said, sending him a slightly apologetic _'what can you do its Sherlock'_ way. 

"Nope, I'm driving you there myself. No reflection on you, John…" 

"But you don't think I can control him?" John questioned, shaking his head slightly, "you're probably right. All right, Sherlock, you've won yourself a trip in the back of a police car." 

o0o0o0o

"You received a letter in the post this morning," Sherlock said from the back of the car, ten minutes into the journey, and Lestrade had to remind himself – once again – that John and Sherlock actually lived together so probably had to talk about the mail and bills and who was cooking dinner (although, surely, that would always be John). Still, it was abnormal for Sherlock or John to show any signs of domesticity when any of them were around – he'd walked in on a few moments of it, and it was evident in the way that they talked to each other, but it seemed there were lines to which neither were prepared to cross whilst in the presence of others. None of his colleagues would doubt that they cared about each other, particularly after each respective person had been injured and they'd had to deal with the other's hysteria, as much as they wanted to deny that Sherlock was incapable of feeling. 

Still. 

"So you're stalking my post as well as my emails now." 

"You rarely receive post." 

"No," John said, "for some reason, everyone addresses the bills to you." 

"The letter bothered you." 

"Right." 

"It wasn't from your sister or your parents." 

"No." 

"Handwritten." 

"Are you getting somewhere with this?" John asked, glancing over at Sherlock, "if you want to know what the letter was about, just ask me. You don't have to deduce it from my reactions." 

"John, who was the letter from?" 

"Clara," John said, "inviting me to her wedding." 

"Obvious," Sherlock muttered, evidentially irritated at himself missing something. 

At the front of the car, Greg Lestrade smiled slightly. 

"And thank you for not reading my post." John said. Greg caught his eye in the central mirror and was unsurprised to see that John was smiling slightly – apparently, not reading his post was an improvement. 

God, Lestrade couldn't have lived with the man. Really he couldn't. 

"When is it?" 

"It doesn't matter," John said, looking away and towards the window, "I'm not going." 

"You're not going?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"God, Sherlock, I just don't want to. Can you drop it?" John had his eyes fixed to the front of the car and Greg wondered whether he'd have minded discussing the issue if he wasn't there. 

"You're continually expressing a desire to have more time to see your friends. You like Clara. Do you dislike her new partner? Or is it the final proof that she will never get back together with your sister?" 

"Have you ever been to a wedding?" John asked, "because I won't know anyone there, Clara will be busy getting married and with her family and I'll be sat at the reception watching everyone get steadily more drunk. Harry's not invited – obviously – so she'll be calling continually, probably drunk too, and yes, Sherlock, it does bother me that she's gotten over Harry and, no, her girlfriend is lovely. Are you finished?" 

"We'll both go." 

"No." 

"Why not?" 

"How are any of the things I've just mentioned improved by you being there?" 

"You'll know me." 

"You're not invited!" 

"You're allowed a plus one, I assume," Sherlock said, pointedly, "unless you think the idea would offend those attending a lesbian wedding." 

Lestrade's eyebrows hit the roof of his car and he touched the brakes a little more than he intended to. Whilst no one else would think much of the slightly harsh movement, he could _feel_ Sherlock's gaze shifting towards him. 

But, really, Sherlock had just said he'd be John's plus one. 

He wasn't even sure how much he'd set in store with the 'Sherlock and John' talk that had been spinning around since the beginning: he thought that their relationship was certainly _very special_ and there was the joint bank accounts (Donovan's _face_ when it had come out that that was the reason why they'd been forced to hang around at a crime scene for hours… then again, John's face had been pretty remarkable too), the communication without words, the very sense of togetherness they seemed to exude… but, then, he didn't see any signs that they were actually a couple (at least in the sense with sex and snogging). 

This was a revelation. 

John didn't even seem fazed. 

"Not really the point," John said, "we're not going to a wedding together." 

"Is that this wedding or weddings in general?" 

"Don't be a git, Sherlock," John said, the affection evident, "and I doubt Lestrade or Molly or Mycroft are about to get married, so that more or less rules out any weddings when we're both invited." 

"We've already decided I'm your plus one." 

"Why do you even want to go to a wedding?" John asked. "Wouldn't have pinned it down to your scene." 

"Might be important." 

"What? For if you get married? Or a wedding massacre?" 

"I'll have your suit dry cleaned." 

"We're not going," John said, "and my suit's clean. Or at least it should be." 

"I want to meet Clara." 

"Why? You didn't want to meet Harry. I had to insist." 

"After what you told me about the last time Clara got married, I don't trust you alone at a lesbian wedding." 

"Well that's not a problem, because I'm not going." 

"We're going." 

"God, we can talk about it later if you want," John said as the Yard came into view, "but as nothing more than a bargaining chip." 

"Sorry?" 

"Experiments," John said, sending him one of those exasperated looks, "if you're that desperate to go, then maybe you won't mind giving up a shelf in the fridge for _food?"_

"Fine." Sherlock muttered, stepping out of the car and upturning the collar of his coat, as per. John stumbled out of the car in his wake, slightly clumsier, and was walking absurdly fast to catch up with him. 

"What? Sherlock! I wasn't expecting you to agree –" 

Greg followed them up the steps, noticing with a grin that Sherlock had slowed down slightly – he'd say unconsciously, but Sherlock never did anything unconsciously – so that John was able to catch up with him. 

The way they pivoted around each other was nothing short of _adorable._

" – well, you shouldn't have suggested it then." 

"Why do you even want to go?" 

"Call it a prevalent desire to be your plus one." 

"Ha bloody ha," John said, shoving his hands in his pocket, "it's a social situation involving drinking and sitting still and no corpses. I'm getting a proper reason out of you." 

"I look forward to your attempts at persuasion." 

Oh _God_ Sherlock was flirting with him. There was no way that last bit wasn't meant as an innuendo – even if John didn't appear to have noticed – and Greg had absolutely no idea what to do with this new found information. 

He'd seen Sherlock flirt before. Molly, witnesses, that horrible occasion when he'd flirted with the deceased widow (although it turned out she'd been the murderer, although he was never sure whether that made it worse or not) in front of the whole murder squad. Normally, though, the flirting was all part of his _normal-man_ persona that crept everyone who knew him out… this was _actual_ Sherlock flirting. 

And John didn't seem to have noticed. 

0o0o0o0o

"Can I have a word, Sherlock?" Greg asked, despite his better judgement, when he'd finally managed to get enough out of him to be sufficient for the paperwork. Sherlock turned his sharp eyes towards him. "Alone?" 

"I'll wait outside," John said, nonplussed (but undoubtedly curious, but that was John all over). 

"What was all that about?" Greg asked him, raising his eyebrows. 

"Unspecific and unhelpful as always, Detective Inspector." 

"Don't give me that," Greg said, beginning to realise that this was an absolutely terrible idea and that his decision, month ago, that he didn't want to be involved in the private life of Sherlock-and-John had definitely been a good one, "what's going on with John?" 

"Nothing." 

"Nothing?" Greg questioned. He'd half convinced himself that they were shagging during the course of the paperwork, but he supposed if John had been a little more aware of the flirting he would have been more perturbed by it: certainly, John had been beyond flustered when the 'joint bank accounts' thing had come to light over a locked room murder, and usually any time it was suggested they were a couple John became more aware of the lack of distance between the pair of them. "And you're trying to change that, are you?" 

Sherlock's glare was so full of irritation that Greg half wanted to laugh. 

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not an idiot. You _knew_ I was going to notice that." 

"Unlike John." 

"Right," Greg said, "that man can tell when a woman half a mile away is _thinking_ about hitting on him, and then you offer to be his plus one and it doesn't even show up on his radar as out of the ordinary." 

"Thank you for highlighting the problem, Lestrade," Sherlock said, the sarcasm palpable, "it's a shame you're unable to turn those _razor sharp_ powers of observation onto your career." 

"Hit a nerve, then," Lestrade said, smiling slightly, "have you _tried_ being more obvious?" Sherlock's glare remained as concentrated as ever. "Although I suppose it doesn't get much more obvious without sticking your tongue down his throat… John really doesn't have a clue?" 

"Wilful ignorance?" 

"No," Greg said, shaking his head, "not John." 

"Thank you, Lestrade. I believe we're finished here." 

"What? You don't want –?" 

"Only conformation." 

"That you were being explicitly obvious?" Lestrade questioned. "Right, well. You were. And John's an idiot." 

Sherlock turned to leave then paused at the doorway and glanced back towards him, as if on the edge of saying something. He'd never seen Sherlock unsure of anything before… and the man must have been unsure if he'd used Greg as a benchmark and to seek some sort of conformation that he wasn't just failing (at flirting, no less)… the man was undoubtedly a bit shit at navigating any form of social relationship, but that was largely by choice. 

"I'm not going to tell anyone," Lestrade said, finally, "don't worry about it, Sherlock." 

"Check whether or not the girl had any drugs in her system," Sherlock said, eyes narrowed slightly, "confirm her identity and text me the details of her activities on Friday night." 

Greg nodded and sat down at his desk, shaking his head slightly. It had been nice to distract himself from the horrible murder earlier that morning by entertaining the prospect of matchmaking (although, really, the whole concept was so laughable and not funny at the same time… because this was _Sherlock_ ), but there was something almost flattering about the fact that Sherlock had trusted _him_ to pilot his flirting skills. 

That was definitely something he never thought he'd think. 

Good God, the whole situation was mental.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: wedding + alcohol. Good luck, Sherlock.


	5. Wedding

John felt _exceedingly_ uncomfortable as they arrived at the crime scene wearing suits. In actual fact, Sherlock usually wore a suit, but John most definitely did not and he felt like a right prat stepping under the police tape with a tie on. He hated wearing a suit; especially with Sherlock looking like he was born in one striding ahead as if the whole thing was remotely _normal._ He looked and felt a bit awkward, like he was attempting to be something he wasn't. Normally, he could put up with the damn things when the context was right… but this was a crime scene. 

"Special occasion, John?" Lestrade asked, lips tilting up slightly, as they approached. 

"His sister's ex-wife is getting remarried," Sherlock said before he could speak, pushing past Sally Donovan to approach the room with the body, "have to be quick, Detective Inspector, the service starts in forty minutes." 

"Don't ask how he talked me into it," John said to Lestrade, following him in with a grim look, "but there's something about the promise of no fermenting internal organs that's difficult to resist." 

"Don't exaggerate, John," Sherlock said, "it was hardly fermenting." 

"It was still in the bloody kitchen though, Sherlock," John turned back to Lestrade, "a lung. There was a lung suspended from the ceiling in the kitchen." 

"You're going to a wedding?" Donovan asked, sounding a little suspicious, "After the crime scene?" 

"Yes, we are." 

"Wait, the Freak's coming with you?" 

"Lestrade, this is barely even a three," Sherlock said, turning away from the body with a look of distaste, "you said it had _promise_." 

"You should have said you had a wedding to go to." 

"Personally," John said, shifting uncomfortably in his suit, "I was hoping it might take a while." 

"John, you look fine," Sherlock said from where he was inspecting the curtains, "stop fidgeting, it's disturbing my thought process." 

"Heaven forbid," John muttered, rolling his eyes to the ceiling. 

"Murder left through the window, you can see from the way the dust on this curtain has been disturbed." 

"The window was locked." 

"It's possible to lock this particular window from the outside…" Sherlock said, his hands spanning the window, "looks identical, clever mechanism though… new, installed about two weeks ago… check whoever installed the triple glazing. Probably a school mate with a grudge. You can tell from his post box that the man was a bully. Come on, John, we're going to be late." 

"Good luck, mate," Lestrade said, clapping John on the shoulder with a knowing grin, "try not to get too drunk." 

"I'll need to," John said, shaking his head and shifting his shoulders slightly, "bloody Sherlock." 

o0o0o0o

Sherlock had been manageable throughout the service – mostly due to Clara's obvious wish to make it as quick as possible – but they were only part way through the reception and it was clear that the whole evening was not going as Sherlock planned. 

"Sherlock's my flatmate," John told the girl they were sat next to, glancing over to where Sherlock was idly staring at his glass of champagne – as if waiting for it to spontaneously combust – "he's never been to a wedding before." 

"Everyone gets drunk and hooks up," the girl said, smiling towards Sherlock. He turned his piercing gaze at her for a few seconds and John could almost feel the backlash of agreeing to this oncoming. 

"You're already drunk," Sherlock said, "maybe because your plus one – fiancé, I expect – cancelled last minute… or maybe it's because -" 

"– let's get a drink, Sherlock," John interjected, standing up abruptly and wrapping a hand around the man's shoulder. 

"I have a drink." 

"Now you don't," John said, picking up his flute of champagne and downing it, "there." 

Sherlock made a face, but allowed John to pull him up by the arm and drag him towards the bar. John, too, wasn't as entirely sober as he usually was – which he was definitely blaming on a mixture of the champagne and the fact that he really didn't want to be here. He wanted time to move faster so it was acceptable to leave, drag Sherlock back to the flat, chastise him for making them go to the wedding and then sit on the sofa together and complain about crappy television. 

He still hadn't got the reason _why_ the man wanted to attend the wedding out of him. John had simply come to the conclusion of a weird social experiment and let himself be dragged along, as usual. 

"I wish you wouldn't be so rude, Sherlock, she was just being nice…" 

"Presumptuous," Sherlock said. 

"What, just because…?" 

"John, she was hitting on you." 

"So what?" John asked, leaning against the bar and ordering two Scotches. Sherlock was infuriatingly silent. "So what, Sherlock?" 

"She's engaged," Sherlock's deep baritone returned, taking the glass John pushed into his hand with an almost smile. 

Oh. John wasn't entirely sure why he was slightly disappointed by the answer, but he was. What had he been _expecting?_ It wasn't like Sherlock monopolised his time for any other reason than possessive selfishness. 

"Drink up, Sherlock," John said, lifting up his own glass. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "She's right, you know, it's a wedding – everyone gets drunk and hooks up." Sherlock dutifully took a drink. "And given it's a dead cert we're going home together, we might as well at least fulfil one of the criteria." 

"To our first wedding," Sherlock said, obviously amused. 

"To never repeating the experience," John agreed, clinking his glass together, taking a gulp of the amber liquid and turning back to the bar, "should probably get a pint to wash these down with." 

"That sounds sensible." 

"Don't patronise me, Sherlock. And you're already two glasses of champagne behind me, so you better drink up." 

o0o0o0o

"This really bothers you," Sherlock said, a pint and a half later. They were sat at an empty table covered in a white blanket, adorned with an excessively bright bouquet of roses. John couldn't seem to get away from the curly font that screamed Clara and Elspeth, or block out the god awful Karaoke, or bring himself to look at the assortment of couples that were occupying the dance floor. As far as showing Sherlock what a typical wedding was like, other than the two brides aspect, it was exactly like every other wedding he'd ever been too. It was almost exactly like Harry and Clara's wedding. 

"Good deduction," John returned, twisting round in his seat to look at his mad flatmate, "not that you'd get it." 

"Explain." 

"Why?" 

"John," Sherlock said, his gaze so intense John felt like he was being dissected. 

"I don't have a family," John said, "call it sentimental crap, Sherlock, but as a _normal_ person the prospect of not having anyone to visit at Christmas depresses me. Harry and Clara… I mean, that was the extent of it and now… well, Harry as she is… she hasn't got much to offer anyone but a whole host of problems and a guarantee of a headache. Clara… Clara knew what Harry was like before the addiction." 

"You could have a family of your own." 

"I don't really see that happening," John said, briefly glancing at his glass before aligning his gaze with Sherlock again, "even if you take out the fact that I'd have to convince some woman to put up with you forever – a miracle in itself – our life doesn't really lend itself to children." 

John was going to blame the fact that he'd basically revealed the fact that he'd spent a significant amount of time thinking about this (this being his long lasting and possibly eternal future with Sherlock) on the alcohol. 

"So," Sherlock said, _"remove me from the equation."_

John made a face. 

"I'd rather not, if that's all right by you." 

"Why?" Sherlock asked, his expression twisting, "obviously it bothers you that you can't have a family. I don't see why _I_ should hold you back from what you really want." 

"Sherlock," John said, reaching out – almost resting his hand on his arm – but coping out halfway through the gesture and settling for the table instead, "Sherlock, I don't want that." 

"Really, John, given what you just said – " 

" – I didn't mean it like that," John said, "I meant that I can't have both." 

_"Have a family then."_

"I don't want any sort of life that doesn't involve you, okay? It's not a choice any more. It's no longer an option." 

"Of course it is," Sherlock said, "simply leave." 

"No, it's not an option because _now_ it wouldn't make me happy. I know you're not going to understand, Sherlock, and it's sentimental so you won't like it, and I'm a bit drunk so I'm probably going to want to stab myself tomorrow… but there you go, Sherlock, I need you." 

"Good," Sherlock said, closer than perhaps he needed to be, "I'd hate to have to separate our finances." 

"Right," John said, suddenly feeling odd; that slightly disconcerting feeling of having misjudged the number of steps on your own staircase, reaching for something from a familiar place to find it absent, the sense that something was wrong but not quite being able to work out what it was. "That would be a shame." 

"Hmmm," Sherlock said, his intense gaze still fixed on him – the way that Sherlock always did – but this time instead of feeling like he was being dissecting there was a sense of something else, something slightly more disturbing, as though behind his gaze there was something more… Sentimental. "And that's one of the reasons you originally didn't go to Harry for help? So I was wrong." 

"You weren't wrong," John said, "I didn't like her drinking and I did like her wife – not like that, but I thought she was a bloody idiot for letting her go." 

"But it was also connected to your desire to have a family?" 

"It's just a bit lonely being just the two of us for Christmas," John shrugged, "when they were together I was invited a long to join Clara's family. These people," John said, nodding to the table at the centre of the reception room, "well… they treated us like family." 

"And now that's over?" 

"It doesn't matter, Sherlock," John said, glancing back at him and pausing for a few long seconds, "it's not Clara or Harry's fault, it happens. I just didn't want it to." 

"You have me for Christmas," 

"I'm hardly going to get you singing Christmas carols though am I? You hate Christmas, but we can be lonely men together." 

"I'm not," Sherlock said, stopping abruptly as if uncharacteristically unsure of what he was about to say, "I'm not lonely." 

"Of course not," John said, shaking his head slightly as he made to stand up and put a little distance between him and his flatmate, "I forgot you were a robot who eschewed company. Another drink?" 

"I'm not lonely _with you_ John." 

"Ignore me, Sherlock, I'm just feeling sorry for myself," John said, standing up – his head spinning ever so slightly – as he headed back to the bar to order more drinks. 

o0o0o0o0o

"John," Clara said, leaning forwards and pressing a kiss on John's cheek, beaming, "I'm so glad that you came. And this must be your Sherlock?" 

"The one and only," John declared, clapping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "he persuaded me to come, in actual fact." 

"Well, thank you Sherlock," Clara said, leaning forwards and kissing Sherlock's cheek as well. John tried very hard not to laugh at Sherlock's frozen expression in response to the physical contact. "I've been reading your blog," She smiled, "you always had a tendency to get into trouble." 

John's mobile rang. 

"That's probably just…" John's usual excuse of Sherlock dropped off the end of his tongue and he winced slightly. Unless it was Lestrade calling about the earlier case (which was unlikely, given he knew that they were at a wedding today), the only other person who'd be calling him was his sister. "I better…" John said, pulling the phone out of his pocket and retreating from the conversation. 

"Sherlock," Clara said, looking nearly tearful for a second, "I wasn't selfish inviting him, was I?" 

Sherlock didn't feel he was in the right position to offer moral judgements, given he was here _once again_ attempting to cause John to reassess their relationship despite the fact that it was becoming increasingly clear than John was detesting every second that he spent at the wedding (and that was before Harry had made her lack of presence known through the phone call), nor did he understand why Clara was appealing to _him_ for any form of support when he'd never met the woman before in his life. 

Sherlock offered her a tight smile, said, "Congratulations," and then headed to the bar to buy John another drink. 

o0o0o0o

John had stepped outside onto the balcony to listen to Harry yell at him a bit (not that he could quite convince himself that he didn't deserve it) and when he'd finally convinced her to go to bed, call her Sponsor and sleep it off Sherlock was stood, several feet away, smoking. 

"You're supposed to have quit," John said, closing the distance and leaning on the railing. John took one of the two pints Sherlock had set down in front of him with a barely repressed grimace; although he had to admit, the wedding hadn't been as awful as it was expecting (Sherlock's presence had actually been a lot more helpful than John had envisioned), it was still tiring him out. 

"Hmm." Sherlock said 

"Are you all right?" John asked, closing his fingers around the edge of the glass and glancing at his best friend. "I've been a bit worried about you lately." 

"You're always worried, John." 

"You're very worrying," John quipped back, taking back a glass, "and I'm still trying to work you out." 

"Why?" 

"Otherwise I've also got to worry about whether or not I should be worrying. But are you, okay I mean? You've been thinking a lot, even when we're not on cases – not telling me what's going on in that bloody brain of yours." 

"I have tried," Sherlock said, dropping his smoked-cigarette and immediately lighting another, "it's not my fault if you never _listen."_ John glanced at him, again, setting down his pint and raising his eyebrows. "Besides, you're the one drinking excessively and talking about being lonely." 

"You've drank just as much as me," John said, "and it's a wedding. What have you been trying to tell me, anyway?" 

"I hardly think a wedding is an adequate excuse," Sherlock said, lifting up his glass and clinking it against John's, turning away and staring out over the hotel gardens, "I dislike places like this." 

"I told you you'd hate the wedding." 

"I meant buildings like this," Sherlock said, "tacky, interpretations of actual manor houses with gaudy gardens." 

"Yours was an actual manor house then?" John said, nudging him with his elbow and grinning at him. "One day, Sherlock, you're going to tell me all about your childhood." 

"If you want to know," Sherlock said, "I have no intention of drinking this much for a significant period of time." 

"You're drunk?" 

"It's a _wedding_ isn't it?" Sherlock asked, rolling his eyes as he stubbed out his last cigarette and turned back to John. "I was under the impression that getting drunk was a requirement." 

"Are you sure you're drunk?" John asked, stepping forwards a little clumsily and narrowing his eyes at him, "because you seem pretty sober to me." 

"Would you like me to stand on one leg or perform the alphabet backwards? Breathalyser test?" 

"That sounds incredible entertaining," John grinned, nudging Sherlock and resting against the railing – arms touching each other – "but I'll let you off this time." 

"Probably for the best," Sherlock agreed, gripping hold of the railings again, "I'd rather not fall on top of you." 

"You're so skinny I don't think it'd make much difference," John grinned, "we should head back in," John said, unconsciously resting his palm against Sherlock's arm for a second, "it's getting cold." 

o0o0o0o0o

"Sherlock," John muttered, "I think we've probably spent a week's rent on alcohol," 

"You have a deluded conception of how little our rent is," Sherlock said, dragging his gaze across the wedding before returning it to John, "although, I'll admit we have spent a significant amount. For which, I'm fully blaming you." 

"The girl in the pink dress," John said, "do her." 

"Everyone is wearing pink," Sherlock said, distaste evident, "I assume you mean the blonde with the glasses. In which case, she's a nurse who's used to night shifts, presumably met Elspeth whilst they were at university, happily married although her husband is very busy at work." 

"Brilliant," John grinned, "how?" 

"Again, John?" 

"Stop acting like you're not enjoying the attention," John said, "you're gleaming with pride." 

"She started off the wedding looking tired but is gradually becoming more awake," Sherlock said, "that suggest night shift. Nurse… just look at her hands. Happily married… she's wearing a wedding ring and, despite the fact that the empty seat beside her suggests her husband was supposed to come, she hasn't looked at anyone else. She's looked at her phone, but she hasn't seemed angry when answering text messages. And I do not gleam." 

"You're slurring," John said, beaming, "Sherlock, you're slurring." 

"As are you," 

"Of course I am," John said, "I've drank our rent in pints," 

"I believe we've run out of people to deduce," Sherlock said, dragging his gaze across the dance floor once again, "and people are _finally_ beginning to leave." 

"Another drink then Baker Street?" 

"Excellent idea." 

0o0o0o0o0

The journey from the taxi up the stairs had never taken quite such a long time, with both of them laughing too much about god awful jokes ('next time, I take the lung in the fridge' 'hmm… much easier to breathe' 'stop it, Sherlock, you're suffocating!' 'way to perforate the atmosphere') and having to stop, clutching hold of each other's arms, to navigate the steps. 

"The great Sherlock Holmes," John muttered, pushing open the door to their living room, _"absolutely drunk."_

"John –" 

"– shush!" John said, pressing his fingertips to his lips, "Mrs Hudson is asleep." 

"And you just fell up the stairs," Sherlock continued, "and threw the door open so loudly that –" 

"- shush Sherlock!" John pressed his fingers to his head. "I really want a cup of tea." 

"John," Sherlock said, "I'm hungry." 

"Tea and toast." 

"Acceptable," Sherlock agreed, heading towards the kitchen (in a somewhat indirect route) and leaning against the kitchen counter, his eyes flickering shut. Sherlock dragged his eyes back open and threw open the fridge door. "John," Sherlock said, "There appears to be an inconvenient deficiency of milk." 

"Shit," John said appreciatively, shoving several slices of bread into the toaster a little too forcefully, "wine, then?" 

"Excellent idea." 

"You know what… my favourite thing about you is, Sherlock?" John asked, when they'd both managed to make it to the sofa with the bottle of wine (toast forgotten and neglected in the toaster). 

"I am sure you're about to inform me." 

"That you appear to talk _more_ like a posh git the more you drink," John grinned, passing the bottle of wine in Sherlock's direction with a grin, "how come I've never seen you this drunk before?" 

"Depressants aren't really my thing," Sherlock returned. 

"The Yard would _love_ to see you like this." 

"Fuck the Yard." 

John giggled, gripping hold of Sherlock's arm for support as he laughed. 

"You were surprisingly good today," John said, "in terms of behaviour, I mean. I was… I'd expected you to make Clara cry or something awful." 

"Clara seems… amiable." 

"Christ, that's a compliment. Although I knew you must like her a bit. You let her _kiss you on the cheek twice_ without deducing her to… breakdown or…" 

"I am capable of being polite, John." 

"You're also _capable_ of charming just about anyone's pants off, Sherlock, but that doesn't mean you ever bother," John realised he was still holding onto Sherlock's arm and leant back self-consciously, glancing up at his flatmates face, "she's got her lipstick on you." 

John reached forwards without thinking, wiping away the smudge of pink with his thumb before _pausing_ and getting utterly frozen in Sherlock's ice gaze. 

"Could I charm you?" Sherlock asked. 

John didn't answer and his mind seemed to have stopped working properly (which he was most definitely blaming the alcohol) instead turning reality into snapshot views of moments that seemed disconnected and disjointed: one second Sherlock was asking him that and the second they were kissing. 

One of Sherlock's hands was still gripped around the neck of the wine bottle, but the other had somehow – at some point – curved around his hip. John wasn't even sure whether or not they'd met in the middle, anymore, because his hands had gone for Sherlock's curls and he was definitely and defiantly reciprocating (if it hadn't been him who'd initiated in the first place, which he wasn't even sure) and, if he was to hazard a guess, he was definitely pushing more into Sherlock's space than the other way round. 

Course, being Sherlock, he couldn't relinquish control for long, because then Sherlock was pushing him back and John's head was spinning and he was falling back, back, onto the sofa and Sherlock was kissing him and the bottle of wine had been dropped and was spilling and his hands were everywhere and Sherlock in his suit and Sherlock _drunk_ and he was _drunk_ and – oh fuck, _what were they doing?_

"Bugger," John muttered, pulling away, backward, off and blinking. Sherlock had dropped the bottle of wine and now the liquid was spreading across the floor. John concentrated on picking it up and trying to clean up the mess, a bit, but he was too drunk to do anything of real use – mostly, he just wanted to not look at Sherlock all ruffled up and… snogged and how he'd done that and what that meant and… 

Well. 

"That was probably taking the wedding thing a bit too literally," John muttered, his knuckles needing into his forehead, "probably best if we just…" 

John turned to look at Sherlock. 

Fuck. He'd never seen the man look so _vulnerable_ before and, whereas before having Sherlock drunk had been _funny,_ now John wanted nothing more than to never let the man drink again – Sherlock was supposed to be guarded and distant, but he looked nothing short of _dishevelled._

It was John's fault. Well, actually, it was the fault of a lot of alcohol… but, Sherlock wasn't interested in anything like that and John must have done something and then this had happened and it was just… it was just _not good_ and _very bad._

"I'm going to go to bed," John said, finally, "Sorry," he added, "you better sleep it off too and… thanks for not being a pain in the arse, Sherlock. You… you really are my best mate." 

In the morning, John would try very hard to _forget_ the haunting images of Sherlock that swam round his mind until he eventually managed to sleep.


	6. Hangover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lestrade sticks his nose in...

John Watson looked bloody awful. 

Lestrade had seen John in numerous terrible states, from having been dragged around by Sherlock for twenty hours straight (and Lestrade suspected that the man hadn't been given much chance to sleep before hand), to dragging a bloodied and bleeding Sherlock into a cab looking half mad with the shock of it. Only a few weeks ago, Lestrade had bourn witness to a soaking John Watson who hadn't been able to walk without support (not that he hadn't looked quite comfortable with the support offered). 

Now, he had that slightly deadened look Lestrade was all too familiar with. Slightly grey, slightly nauseous, exhausted and considerably older. Most probably wishing damnation on all alcoholic substances, wondering why the hell humanity drank anyway, and swearing off the stuff for at least a week. 

"Looking sufficiently hungover," Lestrade commented dryly, "good wedding?" 

Instead of the sort of comment Lestrade was expecting – probably a standard 'just don't mention Tequila' or 'could you turn off the sun, please?' – the extent of his reaction from John was a tight smile of acknowledgement. The smile reminded Greg a little bit of the first few times he'd had John Watson on crime scene, when the man was obviously a little out of depth and a little unsure of himself… not secure in his relationship with Sherlock and falling back on a default solider position of defiance. 

Definitely not something he was expecting to remerge at any point soon. 

"Make it quick," Sherlock said, voice just plain _wrong_ – a strained, artificial reproduction of the man's usual voice (the one that reeked of a superiority complex, genius and the glory of being right). He thought it might be one of the few occasions that none of his team would want to punch him for some reason or other, and it was just disturbing. 

"Right," Lestrade said, glancing between the pair of them, "over here." 

The distance between Sherlock and John was all wrong too. Normally, their conversation and usual back and forth was interrupted only by Sherlock's temporary need for silence when deducing… but surrounding that, there was always some form of conversation. Even if it was just a trading of insults, or theories, they were never silent. Or, at least, it never seemed like they might have nothing at all to say to each other. 

"You're hungover," Sally Donovan said, hand held out and stopping Sherlock from getting near, "unbelievable." 

"A state you're familiar with, I'm sure," Sherlock said, "excuse me," 

"Just don't throw up on my crime scene," Lestrade said, "let him through, Donovan." 

Sherlock stepped forward, looking frankly awful himself – more like the drugged up, withdrawal driven man of years ago than the Sherlock he was used to – although, as far as Lestrade was aware, Sherlock didn't usually drink a lot. 

It scared him how much it seemed to bother him that Sherlock and John were all wrong. 

Even when they were arguing, which happened fairly regularly, there was never this awkward tension or great insurmountable bridge of silence. Instead, their arguments were more like that of a bickering couple and, even when it was apparently about something serious (the flat become a biohazard, unpaid rent, a lack of regard for humanities feelings) there was a sense that John wasn't really _angry_ but just perpetually frustrated and choosing at which points he should be putting his foot down about things. 

"Suicide," Sherlock said, into the silence of the room, "made to look like a murder. Check the medication – she's tampered with it." 

"All right," Greg said, "you two go sleep off whatever you've drunk, then. I'll need to call you in tomorrow, Sherlock." 

"Fine," Sherlock said, turning away, pushing back past Sally Donovan and bursting – although not as per the usual way of Sherlock – back out onto the street. Well, that was definitely wrong. Sherlock was definitely _supposed_ to argue about any time spent at the Yard that didn't directly involve a dead body or some line of inquiry about/that might lead to a dead body. He wasn't object to pointing out that helping Lestrade fill in tedious lines of paperwork was not part of his job description (which was actually one of Sherlock's few valid points), so the lack of argument was nothing short of disturbing. 

Not as disturbing as the fact that Sherlock had been so quick to leave that John was still stood, looking somewhat stunned, at the edge of Lestrade's crime scene. 

"What…?" Greg began. 

"– I better follow him," John said, cutting across him and leaving without the usual polite goodbyes or vague acknowledgement of thanks regarding the objective of keeping Sherlock entertained. 

They both knew that Sherlock would _not_ be waiting outside, but would no doubt have already hailed a taxi and be halfway back to Baker Street… and John wouldn't usually pretend otherwise. 

Lestrade watched John leave with his shoulders hunched, unable to turn his attention back to the crime scene at hand (which was unusual, because the reason Sherlock agreed to tolerate him was his tendency to solidly care about the cases whilst they were at hand, which was also the reason why Lestrade tolerated Sherlock too): both John and Sherlock usually gravitated around each other unconsciously, as if they were both aware they were the most important piece of each other's existence, and throughout the whole exchange neither man had so much as _looked_ at the other, let alone _talked_ to each other. 

What the hell had happened at that wedding? 

0o0o0o0o

Sherlock was hideously aware of every single stretch of silence within Baker Street. 

John seemed to have deluded himself into believing that the kiss was all his fault, despite the very obvious fact that it _wasn't_ and had since been oozing an awkward, apologetic stiffness that made Sherlock want to break something (he had, actually). 

Normally, John was one for talk (dull, dull, dull), but he seemed to have negated his usual duty of ensuring that the air was cleared between them, instead allowing the air to fester and build up into mass silences. 

Sherlock was sure that, soon enough, John would kick into army stance and solider them both through the conversation until everything was sorted, but the intermitted time had sent Sherlock's brain spiralling into the possibility that he couldn't _actually_ handle the relationship he'd been aiming to instigate. 

What would John _want_ from him? Sherlock had barely been able to sit through the entirety of their Valentine's Day date without becoming frustrated at the concept, and that was without John _realising_ that they were on a date. What if, the second John understood Sherlock's intentions, he changed into one of those needy, controlling partners? 

Sherlock had seen enough murders to understand that love was a twisting, vicious motivator that turned semi-rational beings into monsters. 

Surely, John would not be like that (certainly, the man did not have the capacity to actually murder in cold blood for the same reason he was able to kill in battle, or self-defence, or Sherlock defence – because John was so undeniably good that it didn't seem to drag down his soul or turn him into something darker and sinister), but that didn't mean that John wouldn't expect a lot more than Sherlock felt capable of offering. 

He simply _could not_ buy groceries or be polite to strangers (he'd tried with Clara, to some extent). The concept of spending time with Harry was nothing short of abhorrent. He wasn't entirely sure he would be _able_ to put any relationship before the work, even though John had become an integral part of that. Nor could he promise that any relationship would prevent him from playing the violin at absurd hours and not talking for days on end. 

Would John want something _more_ from him if they were further involved? 

As far as Sherlock was concerned, their relationship was already so integral to theirs lives that a change in the relationship would be made up of slight shifts, barely noticeable to anyone but themselves, but John could have something entirely different in mind. 

And there was the other aspect of the John problem that haunted him. 

In actual fact, he could deal without having a physical relationship. He hadn't partaken in one for a significant period of time and, if John hadn't forced his way into being such an important part of his life, he probably wouldn't have considered it as a viable possibility. Or even something that he actually wanted. It wasn't a necessity. He wasn't some hormone driven teenager who needed that side of thing. It seemed… neater. It seemed _convenient_ and right to wrap up all social relationships with John, and have all his conventional relationships within one – but he was entirely sure that saying things like that would be designated a bit not good. John would be convinced that Sherlock was only _interested_ in the concept because he thought that was what John wanted, which wasn't true, and Sherlock didn't have the right words to express how he actually felt or what he actually wanted. 

This was a whole expanse of navigated territory. He simply wanted to skip from _this_ point to a point where everything was settled. 

He had a headache from thinking about it too much. He'd driven himself into a bad mood, had taken refuge on the sofa and was all too aware of John attempting to write a blog post, but stopping after typing each individual word to _sigh_ and generate more _awkwardness_ and kick start Sherlock's irritation levels to a dangerous level. 

"You can't still be hungover," John commented, eventually. 

Normally, Sherlock would have ignored such a comment but, as things were, he felt like if he ignored any single comment, John would assume he was ignoring _John_ rather than the idiocy of small talk. 

"You can't still be writing that infernal blog," Sherlock returned, eyes remaining shut, "although it might help if you stopped deleting everything." 

"Didn't realise you could see with your eyes shut," 

"Your backspace button makes a slightly different sound," Sherlock said, eyes still shut, "probably from overuse – " 

"- you'd know. You're the one who uses it all the damn time." 

"Sadly, it's clearly not enough overuse or your blog would never pollute other people's screens." 

"Yeah, well," John said, "you'd miss the cases my blog brings in." 

"Would I?" Sherlock asked archly, pressing his fingers together and wondering whether John had found his second secret supply of nicotine patches. 

This wasn't so much a three patch problem, as a three patch and a pack of twenty silver cuts problem, but there was nothing to be done – he couldn't back out of anything now, the kiss had already happened, the conversation was inevitable. 

0o0o0o

Lestrade sat behind his desk, feet up upon it, flicking through another mound of paperwork that he had yet to complete (Sherlock had a tendency to produce results that were difficult to put down in paper), with his brain still stuck on Sherlock-and-John. 

He didn't want to get involved. 

For one, it was none of his business. Then, if he ignored that fairly major detail, there was the fact that he was a divorced, straight middle age Detective Inspector which didn't necessarily lend him to having much right to comment on the issue at hand… and besides, he had paperwork to do. Sherlock was a consultant, and it certainly wasn't social etiquette to start delving into the social lives of consultants. 

(Ignoring the fact that Sherlock had appeared by name on a maximum of four police documents – if you ignored his magically disappearing criminal record – and that Greg had been semi responsible for pushing the man through rehab and saving his life twice via interrupted accidental drug overdoses alone). 

Sod it. 

_What's going on with you and John? – GL_

Lestrade sent, running his phone through his fingers before glancing back at the paperwork. 

Usually, Sherlock answered within a minute unless they were in the middle of a case or Greg actually needed some information, when the man would helpfully forget that he had a functioning phone and run about getting himself into all sorts of trouble, giving Greg a tension headache and generally resulting in mayhem and awkward gaps in his paperwork. 

They'd finished a case yesterday afternoon (the one whose paperwork probably wasn't going to be filled in this afternoon, if Greg was honest with himself), but Sherlock had been working far below his usual capacity: the space between John and Sherlock remained too great, the issue evidentially still not talked about, the atmosphere more awkward than it had been after the great Donovan and Anderson argument of last March. 

_Don't you have murders to be investigating? – SH_

Lestrade rolled his eyes. 

_What did you do? – GL_

The reply came almost instantaneously, this time. 

_As you suggested. – SH_

Greg didn't really remember suggesting anything in that bloody awkward conversation. He remembered Sherlock being evasive and saying a lot without usual actual words, as he usually did, but he sure as hell didn't remember giving any advice. In fact, he'd made an internal point of reference to not contribute anything lest it go wrong and he became responsible for the mess they'd gotten themselves in. 

Apparently, he'd managed to anyway. 

_We don't all memorise conversations, Sherlock – GL_

_How is the paperwork? – SH_

Greg rolled his eyes. 

He remembered asking Sherlock if he'd tried being obvious, but that was about it. He hadn't gone into specifics. He hadn't… well, he had said something about the only way Sherlock could possibly have been more obvious was if he'd snogged the man, but that had been a flyaway comment that he hadn't really expected Sherlock to listen. 

Good god, that was it. 

They'd gotten drunk at that wedding and then… 

_Did he reject you? – GL_

Greg could hardly imagine that he had. John could protest that he was straight all he liked, and Lestrade wasn't about to dispute it (it really wasn't any of his business) but anyone could see the way John _looked_ at Sherlock as though he was the missing jigsaw piece he'd been looking for his whole life. And it wasn't like John was very subtle about trying not to notice (or at least, appearing not to notice) when Sherlock was strutting around in one of his particularly showy-off shirts. 

_Not exactly – SH_

Well, that was damn helpful. 

_He is still convinced that I am not interested in a relationship – SH_

Good God, what did the man want? A written notification? A request on facebook? John seemed to have really shrouded himself in disillusionment recently. Lestrade still hadn't quite shaken the memory of Sherlock flirting out of his head (nor could he believe that he was having _this_ conversation with Sherlock, of all people) and it baffled him that John hadn't noticed. 

_Maybe if you two attempted conversation you might actually get somewhere - GL_

 _It's not like you normally have a problem talking – GL_

Ten minutes later and Greg was still without a reply and, without other distractions, the call of his paperwork was increased by several decibels. He didn't _want_ to try and work out how to explain that Sherlock had shocked the woman into _screaming_ a confession without mentioning that he had a consulting detective on hand to get through the cases quicker. __

_Do I need to intervene? – GL_

 _

I suggest you complete your paperwork, Detective Inspector – SH 

I'm going to text John –GL

_

No reply. 

_This is getting ridiculous. He didn't even compliment you during the last case. It was off putting not having him preen over you – GL_

No reply 

_Fine,_ Greg decided, scrolling through his phone and finding _John Watson_ and composing some longwinded text about needing John to drop off several pieces of evidence that Sherlock had stolen (which he did, actually, before the higher ups started asking questions), detailing that Sherlock had refused to come into the Yard. If things really were as bad as he expected in Baker Street, there wasn't much risk of Sherlock coming along for the ride. 

Tomorrow, he'd talk some sense into Captain John Watson and become a consulting match maker. Specialising specifically in self-diagnosed sociopaths and self-diagnosed straight men who couldn't get their shit together without interference. 

Then he'd do his paperwork. 

Maybe. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter being the one where the message is actually delivered... then there's two more pointless chapters that I didn't mean to write which I'm going to post anyway. Fuuuunnn :)


	7. Interference

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the message is delivered...

John Watson was irritated at himself; a deep rooted irritation that was currently manifesting as weariness, but had been oscillating between frustration and mild self-loathing for the past few days. 

Honestly, he'd thought he had the Sherlock situation under control. He'd genuinely believed that he'd separated out the two sets of, potentially opposing, views of his flatmate: the one, where Sherlock was his best friend and partner in crime and the other where he caught himself _staring_ a little too much. Except there was too much overlap between the two. In both, Sherlock was an integral and indispensable part of his life (and he'd accepted that a long time ago) and, in both, there was that all too familiar cocktail of admiration, affectionate frustration and straight up acceptance. 

It had been okay, though. He hadn't been conflicted, as much as realistic. He knew Sherlock better than anyone and that was enough. He didn't _need_ anything else, really. 

Then of course, he'd messed up the whole situation. 

Ever since _the kiss_ he hadn't known how to act around the man. Half of the time, he was convinced that now Sherlock must now have realised that John had been seeing him vaguely like that (not all the time, just on a few choice occasions) since the beginning… and then that came hand in hand with the fact that Sherlock had probably known that anyway, because there was no hiding anything from the man. 

He was still watching Sherlock, taking in the lines of tension in his shoulders, all too aware that he wasn't thinking properly and it was all his fault. Because Sherlock was, for all his talent, a bit shit at social relationships… and now John had landed them both in an awkward social situation that nearly everyone would find awkward and difficult to navigate. 

He didn't know what to do. 

It wasn't like there was anyone he could feasibly ask for advice, either. His sister was still convinced that Sherlock was his midlife crisis (and that was without John going 'well actually a fancy him a bit too' because Harry would have just died over that) and most of his other friends didn't really understand the whole Sherlock situation. Besides, John had spent so much time invested in their personal brand of domesticity that he'd let quite a few of those old relationships slide. Clara was on her honeymoon. He certainly couldn't ask Sarah about this one (particular after his vehement denials about a similar issue). 

And given he had yet to mention the kiss to Sherlock, it seemed stupid to be mentioning it to other people. He just didn't know what to say. _Oh, sorry I snogged you Sherlock. My mistake. It doesn't mean I like you anymore than I did previously, if that helps at all. Would you like a cuppa?_

"Greg," John said, knocking on the man's office door and letting himself into the office, "Sherlock swears blind that he doesn't have anything to do with the missing teapot, but I have the rest of everything." 

"Right," Greg Lestrade said, glancing up at the man, "damn, I was sure he'd nabbed the teapot." 

"He tends not to understand the sanctity of tea-making, but I haven't seen it. I found an alarming stash of empty evidence bags, though." 

"Great," Lestrade said, fighting the urge to smile slightly (he thought he should probably be more irritated about these minor discretions, because it was costing him a small fortune in replacing his warrant cards/ID badges... it was one of those Sherlock-quirks that made Lestrade feel unduly fond of the man), "is Sherlock all right?" 

"Yeah," John said, unconsciously looking downwards and his face setting into a familiar line of _don't ask me about this please._ Lestrade hadn't even come up on his list of people he could potentially ask for advice on this one and the fact that Lestrade was obviously aware that something was right was definitely not good. 

"John," Greg said, raising an eyebrow at him, "I mean, this is none of my business...but, you're usually a lot more Sherlock-literate than this," 

"Sorry?" 

"You understand the man," Greg said, "a lot more than anyone else in the world does, I should think. You always have done. Which is why it's _remarkable_ that you're being so ignorant about what's right in front of you." 

John could feel his face twisting into confusion, slightly, as he glanced back up at the man. He'd known something wasn't quite right. He'd asked Sherlock about that at the wedding, before they'd proceeded to drink a significant amount and bloody kiss on the sofa and then try and pretend it had never happened. 

"What...?" 

"I'd rather not go into the details," Greg said, making a face, "look, John, sit down a minute." 

John sat down. Greg wondered why the hell he'd thought to get himself involved, wondered whether the dullness of the paperwork had literally driven him to insanity and whether or not it was too late to back out of the conversation. 

He definitely needed a pay rise for this. 

"Greg, what are you – " 

" – Sherlock's been trying to hit on you," Greg interjected, feeling his face burn slightly at the words. He couldn't believe he'd actually to just thought that sentence let alone said it out loud, but by the look on John Watson's face he most definitely had. 

Shit. Well… there was no taking it back now. 

The silence stretched between them for a few seconds, during which John's face went through a fascinating variety of expressions – just tiny little shifts – before settling on polite disbelief. "I think you..." 

"I know it sounds like I need some meds or something, John. Believe me this is not something I ever thought I'd be saying. I damn near crashed the car when he offered to be your _plus one_ for that wedding," 

"But, that..." 

"It's Sherlock," Lestrade said, "that's practically a marriage proposal in itself." John's lips closed into that defensive soldier expression once more. "I don't mean to interfere, John, but... Sherlock's bullocks at anything that involves his supposedly non-existent feelings, and you just... well, it seems like you've just _turned off_ that line of enquiry completely." 

"Sherlock isn't interested in relationships," 

"Yeah," Greg said, "he's also not interested in anything that isn't dead or rotting, yet he spends a damn lot of his time with you." 

"We just..." 

"John," Greg said, "stop it. He... the man as good as _asked me_ what to do about the whole thing." 

"What? How the hell did that conversation go?" 

"Awkwardly," Greg said, "I tried to avoid actually saying anything but eh... wound up suggesting that maybe sticking his tongue down your throat would be less ambiguous." 

If Greg had thought that silence had been loud before, it was nothing to the few seconds that followed that statement. It was as though he could actually see the slow realisation making its way from John's brain and onto his face. God, he was too English for this and he didn't want any part in John's internal conflict – he definitely did not want to think about this... drunken kiss and... well, he certainly hadn't joined the Yard to start interfering with people's love lives. 

"Apparently not," John said, shrugging his shoulders. 

"I didn't think he'd actually _listen._ It's Sherlock, you know?" 

"Yeah," John said, swallowing a big gulp of air, "well, as you've got all your evidence back I should probably get going..." John said, standing up again and making for the door. Greg couldn't exactly blame him for that. 

"You okay, mate?" 

"He... we went out for dinner on Valentine's Day," John said, "I didn't even _think."_

"Shit," Lestrade commented, privately making a comment about how, it seemed, John wasn't the only one who had it _bad._

But, honestly, Sherlock and Valentine's Day? That was beyond unexpected. 

And would definitely be resurfacing as blackmail material when they'd sorted the whole 'gay relationship' thing out. 

0o0o0o0o

John didn't go home right away. 

Mostly, because this was just about the forth Sherlock related crisis he'd had in regard to their relationship and he was now feeling the need to sift through everything that had happened lately to analyse it to death. 

With Sherlock, it was always difficult to know. Sometimes, he could be analysing something to death when the action was a tiny, thoughtless detail that wouldn't have shown up on his register had it come from anyone else... and on other occasions, like this one, Sherlock's actions would be screaming something that John had completely missed. 

He was struck that the situation was a little similar to the friend-colleague slip up back in the Blind Banker case, where John had accidentally grossly offended his new flatmate without even realising (followed by Sherlock continually pushing him out of the case, John finding a job and a date and Sherlock reacting badly to that too)... and that had taken a few days of hard thought to puzzle out. 

Then he'd felt like an idiot. 

He _definitely_ felt like an idiot right now. 

It wasn't as stupid as all that, really, because as an exception to most of Sherlock's rules, the usual laws of social interactions need not necessarily apply. He'd often thought that some of the ways they were close were much more like an actual relationship than a friendship, and so he'd been treating their relationship as a sort of... sexless, aromanitc life partner type thing. He certainly wasn't ever planning on leaving the man; they were going to spend the rest of their lives together and eventually be old men (and he was sure that an old Sherlock would be near impossible to deal with, but he wanted to be involved in that more than anything). 

But, Sherlock wasn't... he wasn't _interested_ in stuff like that. He'd lived with his flatmate for long enough to be semi-aware of that. He'd tried to track out some form of sexuality for him, watching Sherlock whenever they associated with attractive people (of either gender). Usually, Sherlock visibly wrote them off as boring so quickly it was hard to register whether or not there was some _visual attraction_ there and eventually he'd given up on the idea. 

Surely, this was a good thing. It meant no more grappling with his emotional state to avoid just staring at him for hours, or being worried that Sherlock was going to register that John's feelings weren't a hundred percent platonic and _mock him_ or make him leave... but it seemed... well, it was damned difficult to accept that something really could work out like that. 

Sherlock was... complicated. 

" – Our lives are significantly intertwined to the point where it seems illogical to have things separate – " 

" – Take from it what you will – " 

" – I was hardly expecting a medical examination – " 

" – Call it a prevalent desire to be your plus one – " 

" – I'm not lonely _with you_ John – " 

John grimaced into his cup of coffee, feeling something a little like giddy elation sparking up in him stomach. Apparently, he was an idiot. 

And that was when he decided to go home. 

0o0o0o

Baker Street had been plunged into darkness and, had it not been for the drawn curtains and all the lights having been decidedly switched off, John would have guessed that Sherlock hadn't moved at all. As it was, the man was still taking up three quarters of the sofa: sprawled across it, eyes shut, completely still. 

John was inclined to question his abilities of observation on a regular basis (particularly after his conversation with Lestrade earlier that day), but he knew that this was Sherlock's none to subtle way of telling him he had a splitting headache and that it would be best for everyone's sanity of John went straight to his room. Which he wasn't going to do. 

John sat down on the small amount of sofa that Sherlock wasn't taking up with his sulking-stance, watched his insufferable arse of a flatmate, decided he looked so vulnerable it hurt a little bit and brushed his fingers across Sherlock's forehead. 

0o0

The headache was a festering ache at the front of this brain, bought on by far too much data and not being able to sleep for several days. Lestrade had evidentially intended to talk to John and, by the sound of his footprints, John had stopped in the doorway and was probably looking at him. Well. 

At least, it seemed, John had continued his excellence in not leaving. Although complete rejection was still on the cards. 

John sat next to him. 

And then John's fingertips skimmed over the surface of his forehead. 

For the large part, Sherlock would prefer it if no one touched him. Whilst he understood the necessity on some occasions, it was usually a completely unnecessary aversion into his personal space. John's fingers though...Sherlock was struck by all that John was able _to do_. Those hands had saved lives – Doctors hands, soldiers hands – and they'd taken lives, they'd punched him in the face, they'd shot a man through the chest, they brushed across the worst of his headache. 

Sherlock kept his eyes firmly shut and focused on the light pressure of John's fingers across his skin, seeming to touch upon the exact spot where the pain was most concentrated: this was the problem with John. None of this would even have happened if that man didn't always know exactly what he should do or say. If he hadn't immediately questioned _drug habit_ rather than _eyeballs in the microwave,_ if he hadn't shot a man to save his life and then joined him for a Chinese, if the man hadn't called him an idiot and made it sound like a compliment. If the man hadn't said _brilliant amazing incredible_ and been so frustratingly _John_ then Sherlock wouldn't have found himself in this mess. 

"I'm trying to decide who's the bigger idiot," John said, tracing circles on his forehead, "you or me." 

"You," Sherlock answered, without opening his eyes. 

"Probably," John agreed, "next time a little head's up would be nice. You know, _I'm trying to subtly proposition you via subtext John,_ that sort of thing," 

"Well?" 

His heart was beating a little too fast for the given situation, a feeling he was not familiar with. 

"I... I have concerns." Sherlock opened his eyes, gaze sharp and piercing. John didn't remove his fingers from Sherlock's forehead and took a breath. "What, exactly, do you want?" Sherlock remained completely still and entirely silent. "You have no idea, do you?" John asked, smilingly ever so slightly, "hence the convoluted attempt to get me to sort it out." 

"This is not my area," 

"Well," John said, "honestly, I don't think _this_ is anyone's area. Right, well, we should probably just... take this whole thing pretty slowly." 

"Your concerns?" 

"Um, just about everything," John said, tracing another circle on Sherlock's forehead, "that this has only occurred to you because everyone keeps saying things, that you'll realise this isn't what you want, that you'll get bored of me..." 

Sherlock reached up and closed his hand around John's wrist. John couldn't pinpoint why, exactly, the movement seemed so wholly significant and important. He was entirely sure that it was the most romantic gesture he'd ever been subjected too. 

Sherlock could feel his pulse. 

"Hmm," 

"Are you sure about this?" John asked, face twisting slightly. 

"Not entirely," Sherlock admitted. 

John half wanted to laugh. 

"Boundaries," John said, "usually… eh, that's a good starting point with a relationship, but you've never had any of those." 

"Seems unnecessary," Sherlock said, long fingers still encircling John's wrist, "given circumstances," 

It felt strange to John to be talking about this so calmly, when this was clearly one of the most important conversations they'd ever had: their whole relationship was at a tipping point, and John still didn't have a clue what to expect on the other side. This was no _rip each other's clothes off_ moment, but a sensible and legitimate conversation about their relationship. This was… surprisingly sensible, given everything. 

"What are you so worried about, anyway? That got you like this," Sherlock's lipped thinned slightly. "You know what," John said, before the other man had a chance to answer, "we don't have to talk about it now. You should take some paracetamol for your head." 

"I'm fine," 

"Of course you are," John said, "which is why you're sitting here in the dark, wincing at the idea of light." 

"Don't exaggerate," Sherlock muttered, still not moving from his position on the sofa and closing his eyes briefly. "So, is that it? Conversation done?" 

"Not really," John said, "more of an opening the floor to every other conversation we need to have. I'm going to get you some painkillers. Cup of tea?" 

"Acceptable," 

"Okay," John said, removing his hand from Sherlock's grip and standing up slowly, "and when, exactly, did you start thinking about all of this?" 

"Dull," Sherlock said, glancing toward the ceiling. 

"People are going to ask about this," John said, walking to the kitchen, "people are going to talk about this _a lot."_

"There's really not that much to say," Sherlock said, "just make something up." 

"Preferably without mentioning I had Lestrade pointing out that I hadn't noticed you were flirting with me," John said, flicking on the kettle and grabbing a packet of paracetamol, "good God, Sherlock, if he blackmails us with that... just, please, take whatever case it is," 

"I'll consider it," Sherlock muttered. 

The kettle boiled. 

John was struck by how little the whole thing had changed thus far, and was then off down a line of thought that probably wasn't very helpful: yes, Sherlock had a headache and he definitely thought that they should take the whole thing slowly (because, well, they needed to talk about pretty much everything if this had a remote chance of working out), but shouldn't there be something slightly more dramatic about this whole conversation? Given Sherlock had been passive aggressively trying to kick start a relationship for months it sure seemed like the start should have been a little more... dramatic. 

And John still wasn't allowing himself to get too happy about the whole thing, because it still didn't seem real. None of it seemed as cemented and concrete as the conversation should have made it. What if Sherlock woke up, changed his mind, and their whole friendship plunged into a state of eternal awkwardness? 

"John," Sherlock said, voice low and suddenly right behind him in the kitchen. John was struck by how godamn young he looked, with his curls slightly squashed from spending too much time sprawled out and sulking on the sofa, and his sodding eyes (what was with them? What colour even were they?) 

Then, they were kissing again. 

It was easier to appreciate the whole thing when John wasn't so drunk he could barely function (and even with Lestrade's confession still fresh in his mind, he still wasn't sure who'd initiated that kiss), and the brush of lips on lips seemed to squash the part of him that had begun to start _panicking._

(And, as a side note, it was apparent that this was _not_ the first time Sherlock had ever kissed anyone – damn what Mycroft seemed to think). 

"Don't flake out on me now, Doctor," Sherlock said, voice barely more than a low hum. 

"How did -?" 

"Oh for goodness sake," Sherlock muttered, "the kettle boiled but you hadn't reached for the teabags. _Transparent._ Clearly, you've learnt _nothing_ from me whatsoever," 

"Take your paracetamol," John said, smiling despite himself, "and do try to stop being such a dick, would you?" 

"Doubtful," Sherlock muttered, dutifully taking the tablets before wandering back towards the sofa. 

John reached for the teabags feeling significantly better. 

"Well," John said, finally bringing the two cups of tea over and setting them next to the sofa, "communication is probably going to be an issue." 

"If you listened," Sherlock returned acidly. 

"Sherlock," John said, "I'd have had better luck if you'd written the whole thing in code. Besides, it's not just you here. I'm not very good at… communicating in relationships. Trust issues, apparently. Although you're certainly worse," 

"I offered to be your plus one," 

"Sherlock, I don't even know what you're attracted to. I've lived with you, I've worked with you... and I don't even know basic details... We're going to need to talk about all of this." 

"What I'm attracted to?" Sherlock asked. 

"We've just spent half an hour talking about _starting a relationship_ and I don't know whether you're straight, or gay, or bisexual, or anything Sherlock. It's bloody _ridiculous,"_

"It's ridiculous that you think it matters," Sherlock said, shifting his position on the sofa so that their shoulders were touching. 

"It's honestly not that ridiculous," John said, raising his eyebrows. 

"It is irrelevant," 

"I really don't think it is," John said, "I'd have thought that was an important piece of groundwork for a relationship." 

"And have any of yours worked out?" 

"Maybe I'll come back in twenty minutes, when the painkillers have kicked in, and you're being less of an arse." 

"Paracetamol is unlikely strong enough to do anything," Sherlock muttered, "and I will _still_ find the question irritating and redundant tomorrow when my headache's gone," 

"Then you're aware that I'll still be asking the question tomorrow, then," John said, placing down his cup of tea and raising his eyebrows in Sherlock's direction, "it's not a hard question, Sherlock, are you straight or gay or –?" 

Sherlock cut him off mid question by kissing him again, this time the sort of brutal head-numbing _holy crap_ sort of kiss; hands curved around waists, fingers digging into the fabric of shirts and foreheads pressed together even after their lips had ceased to be in contract. 

"Fine," John said, "I'll rule straight out of the equation," 

"I would if I were you, Doctor," Sherlock said, eyes still boring into John's, "then again, you always terrible were at it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have lift off!!! 
> 
> And I accidentally kept writing, so two more chapters of marginally fluffy extra relationship stuffs. Yay.


	8. Communication

If John Watson had known he was about to enter into a relationship with Sherlock Holmes, he probably wouldn't have expected it to start a little more explosively. As it was, they'd had a relatively sensible discussion about the matter and made out on the sofa for a bit, before Sherlock had to admit he was losing his battle with his headache and proceeded to wage a war against any crack of light that managed to seep its way into Baker Street. He'd made a pointed comment about going to bed, Sherlock had either missed the hint or decided to ignore it (which was probably for the best, all things considered – especially given the whole _slow thing_ they'd talked about), and John hadn't really felt much like pressing the point any further. 

He'd gone to bed with that blissful calm feeling, mixed with the classic giddy anxiousness, that he came to associate with being far too emotionally invested in people, had laid awake going over the whole conversation a maximum of three times (maybe four) before he drifted off. 

Of course, then he had one of those bloody, brutal dreams of Afghanistan and Sherlock in Afghanistan and Afghanistan in the pool and Moriarty's mad eyes as the bullet ripped into his shoulder and through his flesh and the pain and – 

"Do you ever sleep?" John muttered, still shaking slightly as he walked towards the kitchen, trying not to be obviously holding himself together whilst trying to hold himself together. 

Sherlock glanced at him. 

"Do _you?"_

He hadn't had a bad dream for quite a while. Usually, they correlated with the in-between cases where the domestic lull started driving them both crazy and wound up with them fighting. He definitely hadn't been expecting them to creep back up on him _tonight_ of all nights. 

"Well, I attempt it," John said, fumbling with the kettle and the teabags. He laid his hand flat against the kitchen counter and watched it for a few minutes, as if to remind himself that it wasn't still shaking. _He was fine._ Absolutely. "You purposefully bypass it." 

"The end result is the same," Sherlock returned. 

"Fine," John said, almost scalding himself pouring his tea (he was being an idiot, he was fine, there was nothing to get upset about – just a stupid _nightmare_ – and they weren't supposed to be lingering around his brain like that... he was, absolutely, categorically _okay_ ), "well, I hope you don't mind company." 

"If you mean you, then no – I don't mind," 

"Who else could I mean?" John asked, taking a sip of his tea – forcing himself into a state of _calm_ – before stepping into the kitchen. 

"That's irrelevant," Sherlock said, removing his feet from the sofa to allow John room to sit down, "If it's not you, then I'm not interested," 

"Excellent," John said, sitting down on the sofa gingerly, "excellent basis for a relationship. What are you doing, anyway?" 

"Thinking," Sherlock said. 

"Don't have to be a consulting detective to work that out. Anything interesting, or more tobacco ash?" 

"The effect of salt on a rotting corpse," Sherlock said, "cold case," 

"Mind if I put the telly on?" 

It wasn't one of those British Politeness questions, but an actual question; John didn't really want to disrupt Sherlock's thought patterns too much, even if the quiet of the place was a little too much right after his nightmare. 

Sherlock looked at him for a second. Usually, anything involving noise or sound or bad storylines was not _remotely_ allowed in the flat when Sherlock was thinking, but he was usually a little more lenient with things when John wasn't quite as okay as Sherlock would rather him be. Evidentially, John must have looked awful, because Sherlock mutely nodded and removed the remote from underneath his stack of chemistry books. 

"Thanks," John said, closing his eyes slightly as he found some god awful movie he hadn't watched since he was a student, full of an appropriate amount of gore and bad acting for this time in the morning, and turned down the volume until he could only just hear it – just enough that the hum of activity blocked out the near-silence (or as close to silence as London ever got), to block out the more persistent thoughts swimming round the back of his head. 

"What was it about?" Sherlock asked. 

_The nightmare._

It was a general unspoken agreement that they were supposed to pretend the PTSD and the dreams didn't exist and were simply not a problem, but then John had delivered a fine lecture about communication issues a few hours previously so maybe that was no longer applicable. 

"Afghanistan, you, Moriarty, getting shot," John said, forcing the words out through his base instinct not to mention the whole damn thing. 

"I thought so," Sherlock said, glancing at him, dissecting at him, "you were holding your shoulder when you walked in – before you saw me – and stopped and look at me slightly too long before walking to the kitchen. Your shoulder, does it hurt?" 

"A bit," John said, taking another sip of his tea, "And my leg. I know it's not – " 

"- psychosomatic pain is real pain," Sherlock said, cutting across him, "may I see?" 

"My shoulder?" Sherlock nodded. "Help yourself," 

John pushed the material of his dressing gown away from his shoulder, exposing the wound. 

John was not self-conscious. He wasn't unattractive and he didn't really care about all the rest, but Sherlock was like a walking advertisement for posh suits. John was short and wore jumpers, and Sherlock was _bloody_ younger and a genius and... 

Well, it wasn't one of his most confident moments of all times. Obviously, that wasn't logical – because Sherlock had _seen_ more skin than just his shoulder before, but things like that tended not to be all that logical from John's experience. 

"I feel like one of your corpses," John muttered, as one of Sherlock's fingers drew a circle around the mark on his flesh, his expression so absorbed that John suspected Sherlock hadn't heard him at all. Of course, he'd been forgetting this was Sherlock who was probably going to view each of his scars and marks as mysteries to be worked out and deduced... Any semblance of privacy he'd ever had was sure to be zeroed out during the course of this relationship. 

You couldn't keep anything from Sherlock. 

"Fascinating," Sherlock said, withdrawing his hands away from John's skin. John blinked and released, at some point during the course of the examination (if that was the right word) his heart rate had slowed down and the deep set panic abated slightly. _Good._

"You done?" 

"For now," Sherlock said. 

John pulled his dressing gown back over his shoulder, decided to sod it and twisted himself round so that he was half resting against the other man. Physical affection wasn't something Sherlock was particularly good at, and he probably wouldn't have aimed for an-almost-cuddle on the sofa had it not been the middle of the night, having had the image of Sherlock bloodied in Afghanistan burnt into his vision and any hope of sleep being crossed off for the duration of the night. 

Sherlock tensed for a split second before he relaxed again, deliberately shifting his arm so that it curled around John's waist – an almost cuddle type position. 

John closed his eyes for a split second. This was good. This was very very good. Maybe they were only about six hours into their new relationship, but it was definitely going excellently as far as John was concerned. 

"John," Sherlock said, the words vibrating through his chest and punctuating the easy quiet, "this film is _terrible."_

o0o0o0o

"Sherlock," John said, feeling the beginning of a headache coming on. As much as Sherlock was attractive and brilliant, he was also a right pain in the arse. "What are you doing with my phone?" 

Sherlock didn't answer. 

"Sherlock, give me back my phone." 

"Believe me, John, I have better thing to do than talk to anyone on your contacts list," 

"Well then," John said, making a grab for it, "you won't have a problem giving it back then," 

"You're interrupting my concentration –" 

"- what are you doing?" John asked, reaching out to grab it again, finding that Sherlock had deliberately turned away from him and being locked in one of those sibling-esque grab battles with bloody Sherlock. If John had to sit on the man to get his phone back, he wasn't above it – he'd categorically, always beaten Harry when she'd tried to nab his stuff. And Harry was feisty. 

The problem was that Sherlock had stupidly long limbs and was notoriously difficult to pin down. 

Still, John wasn't likely to lose. 

"You're playing Tetris?" John questioned, when he'd finally trapped one of Sherlock's arm against the back of the sofa and was able to get twist round his other arm to view the screen. "I don't have Tetris on my phone." 

"Evidentially," Sherlock said, long fingers still curled around his phone, "you do." 

"Why do I have Tetris on my phone, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, lacking a large amount of his usual dignity due to being half pinned to the sofa. Honestly, the expression of Sherlock attempting to retain his usual haughty, superior look whilst being _pinned down_ to the sofa was frankly adorable. 

"Studies have shown that Tetris is supposed to help with PTSD," Sherlock said, "your nightmares have returned." 

"And you were testing it out, were you?" 

"Infernal game," Sherlock muttered, "ridiculous notion. How that is supposed to help anyone is beyond me." 

"I take it you're not very good," 

"It's a ridiculous game," Sherlock sniffed. 

"May I have my phone back then, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow archly. 

Really, the man left John no _choice…_ besides, it was rare that Sherlock was ever pinned down anywhere, even if this was just a result of the battle for the right to his personal possessions rather than anything else, but there was no need to waste an opportunity. Not when Sherlock was looking so self-satisfied and with the knowledge that the man, for all his genius, couldn't play Tetris. 

And anyway, John was allowed to now; it was perfectly within his rights to just kiss him. 

So he was damn sure that he was going to whenever he felt like. 

They were gradually falling into a rhythm of a relationship. Honestly, there weren't really that many changes from _before_ they were in a relationship (which was more of a good thing than it sounded like if he were to tell people – which he hadn't, yet), instead a series of small shifts. 

If Sherlock wanted to be left alone, he'd either occupy one of the armchairs or stretch out across the entirety of the sofa and that was that (subtext read and understood, thank you very much), whilst Sherlock would just read John's posture and come up with the usually correct conclusion about whether he should keep his distance or not. They'd gotten through a series of conversations about _stuff_ that John had wanted to know for ages. 

"Thanks," John said, finally pulling the phone from Sherlock's grasp and pulling back away from him. 

Sherlock looked at him, his gaze shifting over him, dissecting and deducing. 

Sherlock frowned. 

"What's wrong?" John asked, self-consciously shoving his phone into his pocket, "what have I done wrong?" 

"Is it me or your continued attempts to cling onto your own perception of your sexuality?" 

"Sorry?" 

"Although you initiate things, you always pull away first. We've yet to sleep together –" 

"– we've yet to do a lot of things," 

_"Exactly,"_ Sherlock said, eyes flashing, "so, what's the problem?" 

"There isn't a problem," John said. 

He should have known that a million miles an hour Sherlock would be incapable of taking anything _slowly_ without deducing problems out of thin air and demanding an explanation from him. And given they'd yet to… go on a date or share a bed, it was downright ridiculous for him to jump straight to sex but… well, this was Sherlock. 

"Then why?" 

"I don't know whether you missed the convoluted way in which we got together," John said, "but I'd rather sort out the blatant communication issues before pushing things further." 

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "What difference does it make?" 

"There are just a couple of things I'd like to know before the point of no return," 

"And you don't think we've _probably_ already crossed that line?" 

"Well, maybe, but -" 

"And you want there to be a way back?" 

"Sherlock," John snapped, _"stop it._ If you're going to put answers into my mouth and tell me what I think, I'll leave and you can have this conversation by yourself," Sherlock's lips thinned slightly, "This has got nothing to do with what I want, I just want to be sure that I know what you want. And given you won't tell me, I'm having to try and work it out…" 

"If you're still hung up on the sexuality thing then – " 

"– it's not that crazy that I want to know," John interjected, "usually, these things are quite helpful." 

"How's that working out for you?" 

"Just… _fine,_ forget sexuality, but I can't _sleep with you_ if I don't know…well, frankly _anything_ about your sex life," 

"Why?" 

"Because," John said, breathing heavily, "because Mycroft seems to think you've never slept with anyone, and whilst I think that's rubbish… it would make a big difference to things. Or, you could have slept with half the country. I don't know." 

"Do you demand a sexual history off everyone you've slept with?" 

"No," John said, "but usually, you can sort of guess. You're a walking enigma, Sherlock, and I have absolutely no clue whether or not you've done any of this before. I can't really see you in a past relationship, but I can barely comprehend this… so, who knows?" 

"What do you want?" 

"I'd like a number," John said, "I mean, a rough estimate. You can leave gender out of it if you really want." 

"No," 

"What exactly is your problem here?" John asked. "I've never known you be so tight lipped about something, _ever._ I don't care, Sherlock. It doesn't make a difference. I just need something to work with here," 

"Why?" 

"Because if Mycroft is right then that's a whole different ball game, and if you've slept with half the country then we need to make sure you're clean, especially because…" 

"Because I'm an ex-drug addict?" Sherlock filled in, expression dangerous. 

"That's not what I meant," 

"Isn't it?" Sherlock asked, "So you don't trust me." 

"Oh I trust you," John muttered, his own anger flaring up, "I trust you with my life, Sherlock, but I don't _for one second_ trust you with yours." 

"How illuminating," 

"There's no problem here," 

"Clearly," Sherlock muttered, stretching out on the sofa with his muscles at tense angles, expression still stony. Sherlock closed his eyes. 

"Sherlock," John demanded, fists balled at his sides. Sherlock didn't react. "Fine," John said, "fine. I'm going out." 

He quite wanted to tell the man not to do anything _stupid_ whilst he was out, but he was entirely sure that wouldn't help with the situation. 

God the man was a pain in the neck. 

o0o0o0o

John returned to the flat to find the kitchen and the sitting room completely empty. He'd rather have talked out the argument with Sherlock _before_ he went to bed, but he wasn't about to knock on the other man's door just in case Sherlock was actually sleeping for once. 

"Sherlock," John muttered, stopping mid stride and hesitating in the doorway to his bedroom, "You… you're in my bed?" 

"Yes," Sherlock muttered irritably, flicking over a page of his book and resolutely not looking up at him. Honestly, John had expected several days' worth of silence and another argument at best – he certainly hadn't been expecting Sherlock to reconvene in _his_ bed. That was more or less the Sherlock equivalent of an apology (although John wasn't entirely sure which of them should be apologising at this point), "Your next fascinating statement?" 

"Okay," John said, "so, bad mood reigns on, then. Why… why are you here, Sherlock?" 

"Don't couples share beds?" 

"It's the tone of distain that gets to me," John said, frowning slightly, "I'm not… Sherlock, I'm not meaning to be an idiot about any of this, but frankly I still haven't gotten over you actually being interested," 

"I know," Sherlock returned, finally glancing up at him, "obviously." 

"Right," John said, "what?" 

"John," Sherlock said, placing his textbook on his knees for a second, "you are not as entirely idiotic as most people. Now I'm _thinking clearly_ it's obvious that your continued obliviousness was, in part, my fault. Having repeatedly told yourself that I was not interested and would never be interested, you were reluctant to believe otherwise. If I'd addressed the issue a year ago –" 

"– addressed the issue?" John questioned. 

"Please," Sherlock said, his expression twisted. 

There it was. Sherlock just didn't _mean_ things the way they necessarily came out. The please was a polite request for John to continue to ignore what he actually said, and keep reading what he actually meant; referring to the whole thing as an 'issue' wasn't exactly the height of romance, but if there was any hope in hell this was going to work then… 

Besides, he didn't much want a Sherlock that spouted poetry and talked about his feelings. He wouldn't know what to do with that sort of Sherlock. 

"I come out of this whole story looking a bit pathetic," John said, "but…thanks. I'm just having a hard time convincing myself that any of this is real," 

"Hence the nightmares," 

"Sorry?" 

"Uncertainty and self-doubt. Mycroft informed me it was in the notes from your therapist," 

"Lovely," 

"I tried to delete it," Sherlock said, almost apologetically. 

"Don't… don't worry about it," John said, "Although, I thought Mycroft thought Ella was rubbish," 

"He's predisposed to dislike therapists on the whole," 

"Are you going to tell me, then?" 

"What?" 

"I stand by my statement, Sherlock. I can't sleep with you unless I know," 

"I assume you mean sex rather than sharing a bed," 

"Yes," 

"Well then," Sherlock said, turning back to his book, expression in a set line, "it can wait. Probably longer than _you_ can," 

John shook his head at that and decided to ignore it, at least for the next few minutes. 

He took a few steps close to his bed; still not sure what to do about the fact that Sherlock was _in_ his bed, but not really wanting to question it lest he ran off. There were a few things that John considered as pretty important for relationships and thinking about most of them in regards to Sherlock was a little baffling; he didn't think date nights and regular communication was on the cards. Then again, they'd spent the first night of their actual relationship watching a film, cuddled up on the sofa. And now Sherlock was in his bed. 

Maybe, just maybe, this had the potential to be a lot more conventional than John had anticipated. 

"So, we share a bed now, do we?" 

"I don't… I don't sleep the majority of the time. I dislike it. My sleeping schedule is erratic and – " 

"– and I've lived with you for long enough to know that. I'm okay with it, Sherlock. I'd like you to sleep for eight hours a night and eat three meals a day as a matter of health, but certainly not for any reason as selfish enough as to sleep in my bed. I know this changes a lot of things, but it also doesn't change a lot of thing. So, are you planning on sleeping? Or just reading your book all night?" 

"Does it bother you?" 

"I'm… I'm really glad you're here," John said, eventually, "so no, it doesn't. Providing you want to be here, and aren't here out of some sense of obligation," 

"I'd prefer your nightmares to stop," Sherlock said evenly, "which means I need to convince you that I am deadly serious about this. Sex would help." 

"Well, give me a number and I'm all for it," Sherlock rolled his eyes irritably. John grinned, and got into bed feeling a little wrong footed again – the problem with the whole thing was, theoretically, he was now allowed to touch and hold at will. Yet, this was still Sherlock, so goodness knows where the man's line in terms of anything remotely touchy feely stood. 

"Ridiculous idea," Sherlock muttered. 

"Why's that, again?" John asked. 

"You're going to lose," 

"Oh?" 

Sherlock shifted, twisting round in the bed and into John's personal space. He was close; so close that their noses brushed together. John's breath hitched in his throat. "Pupils dilated," Sherlock said, his lips brushing over his skin. "Not to mention…" Sherlock's lips skimmed over John's neck, "your pulse," 

"Just because you're stupidly attractive doesn't mean myself control is compromised," John said, flipping himself over into Sherlock's space and kissing him. 

"Stupidly attractive?" 

"Mm," John muttered into the skin of Sherlock's throat, "who gave you brains _and_ beauty, anyway? _Very_ damaging to a bloke's heterosexuality," 

"Please," Sherlock scoffed, "your _heterosexuality_ was a barely formed delusion born out of your parents prejudice against your sister," 

"Okay," John conceded, kissing him again. 

"What? You're just agreeing?" 

"Well, I'm snogging a bloke in my bed," John said, pulling away for a few seconds to look at him, "that seems fairly telling. And I'm not going to lose, Sherlock," 

"We'll see," 

"Night, Sherlock," John said, kissing him for a split second before reaching over and turning off the main light, "turn the bedside light on if you want to read." 

There was a comfortable silence for a little while, in which John found himself debating whether or not to bite the bullet and wrap his arms around Sherlock or not. 

"John," A brush of hot air on his cheek, Sherlock's body curving towards him, "thank you." 

John wasn't entirely sure what he was being thanked for, but he could feel the gratitude in the word all the same. And it was entirely earth shattering to have _Sherlock_ whispering thanks in the dark. 

Who the fuck needed poetry, anyway? 

John reached out and found Sherlock's hand, his fingers closing around it with a small smile. 

o0o0o0o

"Is this your impression of a person who doesn't sulk?" John asked, poised at the door to Sherlock's bedroom, leant against the frame and trying not to get distracted by glancing up at the periodic table. He rarely went in Sherlock's room. Honestly, _Sherlock_ rarely went in Sherlock's room and, well, John had thought if he maintained some level of respect for privacy from his direction then Sherlock might do the same in regards to his room (it hadn't worked). 

Now, of course, it was _their room_ on the nights that Sherlock actually decided to sleep. 

"Because let me tell you Sherlock, it's utterly rubbish." 

Silence. 

"If you really wanted that placenta, you shouldn't have insulted Molly's cardigan," 

The Sherlock lump in the middle of the bed didn't react. 

"And I know Mycroft is a git, but that's nothing new." 

Nothing. 

"And I'm sorry that _I'm_ annoying you, Sherlock, but I guess I'm a git too." 

Sherlock suddenly sat up in a flurry of limbs and dressing gown (and he didn't appear to be wearing much underneath, either). 

"I don't know," Sherlock said. His blue-grey eye sharp and slightly manic. This Sherlock usually reappeared when he was on the cusp of figuring something out, but was still struggling to get there; brain overloaded with too much data and no real way of piecing them together. 

Except, they hadn't seemed to have a case for several weeks. In fact, since they'd _started_ their whole relationship they'd heard nothing from the police (maybe Lestrade was avoiding them?) and had taken on a grand total of two private cases (not really enough, considering it had been over three weeks since that conversation). 

"You don't know, what?" 

"The number," Sherlock said, "I don't know _the number._ I _deleted_ half of it," 

"And the rest?" 

"I was high. I _don't know,_ John," 

John sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed and tried to _think._

"On Valentine's day," John said, carefully, "when you said 'the same way every addict funds an addiction' did you mean…?" 

"Yes," Sherlock said, "probably," 

"Before then," John said, "before _that,_ had you slept with anyone?" 

"Yes," 

"Okay," John said, "fine," 

"Fine?" 

"I told you it didn't matter," John said, head spinning slightly, "not that we're not going to talk about all of this, because we definitely _are_ …but, it can probably wait." 

"Probably?" 

"You're an idiot," John said affectionately, "You know that, don't you? And if I'd known that's why this was stressing you out I would have just dropped it, but this is why I needed to know, see?" 

"No," 

"Stubborn git," John grinned, reaching out and untangling Sherlock's clenched fist, "and I _told you_ I wouldn't lose." 

The lines of agitation etched into Sherlock's forehead softened slightly. 

"Well?" John said, squeezing Sherlock's hand for a second. 

"Well?" 

"Well, get _over here_ you consulting prat," 

And then John kissed him properly. 


	9. Outing

"You ought to be careful," John said, leaning against one of the empty tables of the morgue as Sherlock preened over another corpse, "paying such close attention to someone else – I might get jealous." 

Ever since John had managed to get Sherlock to admit that one of his relationship related fears had been that John might become clingy (sex, as it turned out, was very useful in getting Sherlock to talk), he'd been teasing him about it slightly. John had never been accused of being clingy in his _life_ and he was entirely sure that Sherlock should have been aware that the opposite had been the case with the majority of his relationships in the past (because Sherlock knew about everything). 

Besides, the ammunition was just too perfect because it always took Sherlock slightly longer than normal to work out whether or not John was being serious. 

As it was, Sherlock froze for a second, glancing over at John's direction before cataloguing John's distinctly amused expression. Sherlock raised his eyes for a split second in response, lips pursing. The whole thing had more or less turned into a bit of game used to work out the boundaries of their relationship (as John wouldn't have teased him about the whole thing if it actually bothered Sherlock), because it was a lot less awkward than rehashing old conversation every time something new came up. 

His comment basically meant _no, Sherlock, I'm not about to have a go at you for focusing more on the case than me; if anything, I expect it from you_ without having the awkwardness of directly saying it. 

Unfortunately, that was the exact moment that John noticed the entrance of Lestrade and Molly. 

Molly bit her lip and seemed to half squeak which only drew attention to the fact that the offhand comment was distinctly revealing. Lestrade looked as though he didn't know where he should be looking, Sherlock rolled his eyes so deliberately that it looked almost painful and John was finding it very hard not to grin or burst out laughing. 

If it had been anyone else, John might have been embarrassed. Or maybe if it had been a slightly different day… but only this morning he'd had Sherlock muttering deductions into his skin, not bored and begrudging. He'd willing eating breakfast (lots of nagging still required, but he had eaten) and, before all that, he'd woken with Sherlock somewhat wrapped round him. 

It was stupidly imperfect to have Sherlock still so Sherlockian, and yet so much closer to him than normal. He felt he had a right to be pretty bloody happy about the whole thing. 

"Where was the victim found?" Sherlock asked, clearly bored of the moment already. 

"Flat in Earl's court," 

"She was killed outside," Sherlock said, mapping out a whole series of deductions and observations in a long stream of words. John had lost the thread of it because it had been a few weeks since they'd been on a case (Greg hadn't called them in for anything since they'd had that little chat, which John rather suspected had been a mixture of him wanting to give them time to get the whole relationship thing sorted and to dilute the embarrassment of their last conversation). He'd almost forgotten how sodding animated Sherlock always look in the midst of one of these rants and, given back then he hadn't been allowing himself to really appreciate it, now seemed as good a time as ever to really watch Sherlock's genius in action. 

"You think there was another victim before this one?" John asked, pulling himself back into the conversation. 

"Possibly," Sherlock said, "that, or our killer has an in depth knowledge about the human anatomy. The cut is too precise and exact. Not a crime of passion; too clinical." 

"Okay," Lestrade said, "thanks." 

"You didn't call me in for the Robinson's case," Sherlock said, turning around, eyes narrowing as he glared at him. 

"I thought that'd be a… five or something," Lestrade said, glancing at John for a split second. 

"That wouldn't normally stop you," 

"I figured you were… busy," Lestrade said, finally. 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed further. 

"Leave the _figuring_ to me, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said, turning around in a swirl of coat and arrogance, pausing in front of Lestrade for a split second in a way that made John slightly suspicious, "you've proven repeatedly that you're terrible at it. Come on, John," 

"Thanks," John said on the way out, trying very hard not to grin too much. 

o0o0o0o0

"Sherlock," John said, hovering in the doorway, "I just had Mrs H asking me about our bed situation." 

Sherlock was all splayed out on the sofa, midway through the usual post-cast crash with an ice pack (an actual ice pack this time, rather than a slowly defrosting spleen or anything else disturbing), pressed against his left shoulder. 

"Hmm," Sherlock muttered. 

"Apparently, the fact that your bed hasn't had sheets on for a week was concerning. She thought you'd stopped sleeping." 

John got another 'hmmm' in response. 

"So, Mrs Hudson knows," John said, "Sherlock, are you listening? Me, you, people. Are we _telling?_ " 

"What?" 

"Are we telling people that we are together?" "People? What people?" 

"Well, not Mrs Hudson or Lestrade or Molly," John said, "but my sister or your brother and… the other Yarders and… friends and, I don't know Sherlock, people," 

"Is that customary?" 

"I guess," John said, frowning "is your shoulder okay?" 

"It's _fine,"_

"It looked nasty," John said, temporarily removing the ice pack and glancing at the skin beneath, running a finger over the bruise, "bit of a dick, really," 

"Well he had murdered four people," Sherlock said, "and it still looks better than your shoulder." 

"Good job too," John said, "and if we could continue the pattern of not being shot that would be wonderful." 

"Do whatever you want," Sherlock said, "about the people," 

"That's not really how this sort of thing works," John said, placing the ice pack back on his shoulder and distractedly brushing Sherlock's curls out of his eyes for a second, "you can't just… leave it to me," 

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, "You're obviously much more qualified to make the decision." 

"Have you slept since we started this case?" 

"You know I haven't slept," Sherlock muttered, irritated, "you made a point of going on about it." 

"Yes, yes," John said, "and I'm very annoying and irritating, but you're burning out and you need to sleep," 

"I'm not moving," Sherlock said, his voice drained of the usual aliveness. He didn't like it much when Sherlock got like this, but it was just another of his processes. The case had been long with a rapidly growing body count and well… this was just Sherlock. 

"Fine," John said, smiling slightly as he retrieved Sherlock's duvet from his bedroom (not on his bed, which was currently being used for an experiment that John had decided he'd rather not know about) and chucked it in his direction, "but we're talking about this tomorrow," 

"Dull," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes for a split second. 

"Night, Sherlock," 

"John," Sherlock's voice rang out, slightly stronger. John turned back from the doorway and glanced over at him. Sherlock shifted over to one side of the sofa and cocked his head at the slither of space he'd created. 

"You want me to stay down here?" John asked, feeling his forehead furrowing slightly. That was somewhat out of character for Sherlock. 

"Problem?" 

"We have two perfectly good beds," John said, still paused halfway through the door. Sherlock made an irritated noise. "And if Mrs Hudson -" 

"Mrs Hudson is aware now. And presumably, since you didn't start this conversation with 'Mrs Hudson asked about our bed situation and thoroughly disapproves' I'm going to assume that she does not care," 

"The woman tried to set us up the day I moved in, Sherlock, she's thrilled," 

"Well, then," Sherlock said. 

John crossed over to the sofa. 

"There's not much space…" 

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock muttered, reaching out with his good arm and pulling John onto the sofa, wrapping an arm around him before pulling the duvet over the pair of them. Sherlock closed his eyes. 

Normally, they woke up all cuddled together, but that was a mutual migration in the middle of the night as opposed to a pre-set thing. John wasn't entirely sure whether this was relationship progress or just a throwback of Sherlock being so tired, but either way didn't think he was going to start complaining; the closeness was a bit uncomfortable and a little too hot, but he was damned sure there wasn't any room for anymore nightmares. 

"You feel the need to tell people because of your previous ascertain that you're straight. Am I correct?" Sherlock muttered, and John could feel the words vibrating through his chest. 

"You usually are," 

"Well, no one believed you anyway," Sherlock said, a hand folding over John's bad shoulder, "clearly, you're not comfortable with the idea, which is why you bothered asking me in the first place. _Forget it."_

"Okay," John said, into the darkness, "one more thing, Sherlock," 

"Hmm," 

"Lestrade was looking at me strangely all through yesterday..." 

"He was being irritating," Sherlock returned, coolly. 

"What did you do, Sherlock?" 

"He shouldn't have interfered." 

"Sherlock..." 

"I stole his handcuffs," Sherlock admitted. For a brief second John was utterly silent, then the ridiculousness of it all caught up with him and he was laughing and giggling with Sherlock's arm wrapped around him, cuddled up on the bloody sofa. Sherlock was laughing too, his smile ghosting across John's forehead and John was entirely sure he'd never been this amused or content in his life. 

o0o0o0o0o

The video footage had been skimmed from a security camera. John didn't know why he was surprised, really, because London was so full of security cameras and Mycroft was such a nosy git that it seemed inevitable that he'd wind up in another abandoned warehouse, watching a supposedly incriminating video of him and Sherlock. 

If anything, the fact that it had taken over a month after they'd first slept together for Mycroft to have any hard evidence was a sodding miracle. 

John supposed that it had _something_ to do with the fact that neither of them were particularly coupley in public; not just because, at current, barely anyone was aware that they were in relationship, but because they just weren't like that really. In a relationship that was almost entirely built up of reading between the lines, seemingly innocent gestures that had enough strength to pull down mountains and a hefty amount of guesswork, it wasn't really surprising that screaming acts of PDA were almost completely off the cards. Besides, the first few week they'd been so skittish around each other that it was almost laughable – on occasions, one or other of them would just take the plunge and act, but half of that time John was sure that both of them wanted to be slightly closer but neither of them were prepared to put themselves out there. Course, after he'd worked that out everything was a bit simpler; he pushed ahead with the touching, and the affection, and the bits of sentiment that crept through and Sherlock would react accordingly. And if it wasn't them (which was pretty easy to work out within minutes) then that was that and they no more thought went into it. 

Now, they'd gotten into the rhythm of the thing and, most of the time, it felt so natural and obvious to reach out and touch, kiss, ask, that it felt strange to think of the whole before when their relationship had been so quantitatively different. 

The clip of video was slightly grainy, but they were clearly distinct; Sherlock in his bloody coat and John's own stride just as easily recognisable. It was just after a post-case meal (turned date, John supposed) and they were walking back to Baker Street, clearly in the middle of talking about something. He couldn't remember the exact conversation but Sherlock said something and then John – and he couldn't even remember why – had reached out and caught his hand for a split second. Sherlock slowed slightly, turned towards him and laughed, then the hand was dropped and the moment was over and the clip restarted. 

He couldn't make out either of their expressions properly and, in reality, the clip didn't really prove all that much. The few seconds of hand touching was hardly explicit evidence of a relationship... unless you knew Sherlock, in which case the line of Sherlock's shoulders and the laugh was so telling that they might as well have screamed that they were together. Obviously, Mycroft hadn't managed to find a more obvious clip from his arsenal, but had probably gathered enough of his own brand of evidence from other pieces of security footage to get to a conclusion. Hell, it was Mycroft – he probably only had to squint at Sherlock in one of these photos to work it out. 

John watched, again, as his on screen self reached for Sherlock's hand. The thing that struck him was how obviously _relaxed_ and _happy_ they both were. Sherlock laughed again. John vaguely wished he could remember what had been said, but he remembered feeling that utter contentment of being in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. 

"Well?" Mycroft said, finally pausing the replay (freezing the image of Sherlock, mid laugh) and turning towards him with umbrella aloft. 

John glanced back at the image. 

"He's definitely put on weight," John said, thoughtfully, "he point blank _denied it,_ the git." 

0o0o0o0o

Sherlock was knee deep in the middle of a fascinating experiment involving an almost-full set of toenails when John re-entered the flat. 

Surprisingly, his over awareness of John's presence hadn't been as detrimental as he thought it might have been and, for the large part, it was a lot easier to think when he wasn't trying to work out what to do about the whole situation. For all his expectations, Sherlock hadn't banked on it being easier to be in a relationship with John that not be in a relationship with the man. 

He suspected it was not the case for regular relationships and this anomaly was entirely tied up in the fact that John was John, so he was able to skip through the pointless sentiments and politics that people obsessed over. 

"No," John said (phone voice, terse, weary, strained; probably talking to his sister), pushing open the door to their living room and pausing for a second, "No, Harry, it's not some big secret I just... well, _yes, _but..."__

 _ _Sherlock glanced up at John and assessed his appearance.__

 _ _

Evidentially, he'd decided to go through the motions of informing his sister that they were now in a relationship (although Sherlock still didn't understand why this sort of declaration was necessary), which meant that something must have happened to shift his reluctance on the issue. It was possible that Harry had called and John had let something slip, but John was so tight-lipped about anything regarding his sister that he doubted he'd have let something remotely personal come up in conversation by accident. And, besides, Harry usually only called when she was drunk or whining about something or other. 

Ah. 

_Mycroft._

"Big brother is watching you," John said, phone temporarily pressed into his neck, as he set down a photo taken from some CTV footage in front of Sherlock with a grimace before turning back to his mobile, "it just _happened,_ okay?" 

John was now close enough that Sherlock could hear the other end of the conversation, Harry's response of _'gay relationships with your mad flatmate don't just happen to apparently straight men, John'_ cut through Sherlock's brain. 

_Urgh._

Siblings, at least, were a point of mutual irritation. 

Sherlock stood up, temporarily abandoning his toenails to make a pilgrimage to the kettle. In part, because talking to his sister always put John in a bad mood and tea was John's first port of call for any given situation (and, Sherlock had noted, when he made any effort to make tea for John the happy-effect of the tea more or less doubled, acting as a get-out-of-jail-free card for most things), but mostly because he wanted to be far enough away as to not hear Harry's responses. 

Not that he couldn't deduce them, because Harry was horrible predictable. Idiotic, too. He had tried to be remotely polite when John had forced them into meeting, but the fact remained that Harry had been partially to blame for the rut he'd found John in. It was illogical for him to want to hold an addiction of all things against her, but that didn't mean the large proportion of himself didn't want to. His addiction hadn't bothered anyone but himself. Harry was, or at least had been, all that John had left. 

"God's sake," John muttered, "did you want me to ring you up post-coital to inform you or something...? Yes, Harry, obviously... That's generally how relationships...no, I'm not posting an update on the blog... no, not because I'm ashamed, it's just..." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ceiling and deposited a tea bag into the tea pot. He loathed making tea. The sheer repetitiveness of the mundane act made him want to tear his skin off, but... well, John. 

" – I'm glad you find this so funny," John said, wearily, "but no, you can't tell all of my ex-girlfriends..." 

Sherlock poured the two cups of tea, grimacing, before delivering one to John – who offered him a strained smile – and returning to his toenails. 

The picture caught his eye for a second. 

_Damn Mycroft. _Obviously, the fact that Sherlock's brother was now in the know had bought on this sudden stroke of madness from John. If Mycroft could just _keep his nose out_ of Sherlock's business then John wouldn't be having this conversation with his sister. He couldn't give a shit what Mycroft thought about him and John (although the prospect of Mycroft's smugness surrounding the issue made his skin itch slightly; he was going to be utterly infuriating for months), but did he have to make it worse by causing Harry to be added into the equation? __

__"Yes," John muttered impatiently, "fine, I'll ask him," John turned to him, expression dubious, "dinner with Harry on Thursday?"__

 _ _

"No," 

"Yes," John said, "Thursday's fine by him," Sherlock glared at him. "Yes, fine... okay... bye...yes, _bye._ " John pocked the phone with a visible grimace. "I'll make it up to you," 

"I sincerely doubt that," Sherlock muttered. 

"You can have the drawer in the freezer back," John suggested, "wait, damn, you already reclaimed that, didn't you? Um... permission for another severed head? Sex? I won't nag you about eating dinner?" 

"I assure you, nothing can make up for an entire evening with your sister," 

"But you'll go?" John said, glancing at him. 

"Provided I _never _have to spend time with her again," Sherlock said, evenly.__

 _ _"It's not exactly fun for me to have you going at each other's throats," John said, taking a sip of his tea with a thoughtful smile, "and your brother kidnapped me again today. And Lestrade still won't look at me straight after that stunt you pulled with the handcuffs,"__

 _ _

"Fine," Sherlock agreed, already regretting it (and beginning to map out a number of ways he could get them both out of it without erasing suspicion from John, which was honestly the best thing for everyone involved). Although, obviously, he would be making the most of all the things John had offered – he wasn't an idiot. 

"Thank you," John said, "and thanks for the tea. How was your alone time with the toenails?" 

"Fine," Sherlock said, "I need to check them every half an hour." 

"Mycroft didn't say much," 

"I didn't ask," Sherlock returned pointedly. 

"That doesn't mean you didn't want to know," John said, setting down his cup of tea and stepping closer towards him. John's hands brushed over the line of his shoulders and Sherlock instinctively leant back into the touch (he was getting better at all of this stuff now, to the point where his brain stopped cataloguing everything about each individual moment of touch and coming up with an instant step back reaction. Instead, relaxing into the moment was become more natural and the instinct to pull closer was beginning to appear). "You're just too much of a stubborn git to ask. He showed me a bunch of CTV footage in usual Mycroft style and I told him it was none of his business." 

"Mycroft is under the impression that everything is his business," 

"Tell me about your toenails, then," John said, "the experiment, not your actual toenails." 

"Only if you don't blog about it," 

"Honestly Sherlock," John grinned, "I don't think anyone would read about that. It's hardly front news stuff." 

"Then why do you want to know?" 

"Call it a personal interest," John said, "we haven't had a case for a couple of days and I'm guessing you want an opportunity to feel clever." 

Sherlock twisted in his seat, turning to look up at John: it was moments when John said things that were just so utterly perfect that reminded Sherlock why he was so pleased that they were now doing this. John knew how Sherlock worked and wasn't disgusted by it. He didn't look at all of Sherlock's arrogant behaviours and all his screw ups and decided he wasn't worth it, but instead decided he wanted to draw closer. He could see the way John's mind worked, stripping his behaviour down into understandable chunks; John knew that Mycroft usually made Sherlock feel inadequate and redouble the idea to prove himself, knew that Mycroft's view on something like a relationship were hardly going to induce a positive reaction. 

He knew Sherlock. 

Sherlock reached out, fingers tangling in the material of John's shirt as he closed the distance and kissed him. 

Besides, there was still another twenty five minutes until he next needed to check in on his toe nails. 

0o0o0o0

As per normal, Sherlock was being an idiot and John had somehow got pulled into his mess. 

John had been woken up at some stupid time in the morning and told that they were going to Birmingham in the wake of Sherlock's latest favourite serial killer. He'd managed to delay Sherlock just long enough to pack some clothes, but not quite long enough to ascertain that Sherlock hadn't bothered to tell Lestrade that their case was moving slightly further north. John hadn't realised that the police had no idea they were heading to the crime scene in Birmingham until a particularly irritable brummie officer had chucked them off said crime scene and refused to cooperate with Sherlock till one of the London Yarders showed up to 'supervise' him. 

John couldn't blame Greg for refusing to come to Birmingham, really he couldn't… but that didn't mean it was any easier to deal with a put out Sherlock in a place that was not London, and was therefore not a place Sherlock particularly wanted to be. Sherlock had been an petulant git for the length of time it took John to book a room at a hotel, had called Lestrade to complain a bit more, protested that he didn't want Sally to supervise him (and that he didn't need supervision, which had gotten a laugh from John and Lestrade) and had then reverted to sulking. 

With a bit of persuasion, John was just about able to fully distract the man for long enough to end the sulk. Then, he'd left him in bed to try and find some food (as in between driving up to Birmingham, getting kicked off a crime scene, arguing with the police man, arguing with Sherlock and the subsequent hotel sex there'd been virtually no time to eat). 

"Sherlock," John said, pushing open the door to the hotel room and stopping short. 

Apparently, in the time it had taken him to get two take away pizzas, Sally Donovan had arrived (which meant, most probably, Lestrade had sent her before the big argument had started and had only spent so long arguing with Sherlock to prove a point). 

It was a point of great amusement for John that most of the Yarders had absolutely no clue that he and Sherlock were now in a legitimate relationship. Of course, Lestrade knew… but other than that, it seemed that the others were all completely in the dark despite the number of rumours and comments they'd gotten when Sherlock had first starting bringing John along. 

"Thanks for coming, Sally," John said, glancing round the hotel room. Sherlock was almost exactly how he'd left him, only with added dressing gown (probably for the best, too, as Sally Donovan looked perturbed enough without Sherlock being utterly naked), and sitting on the bed rather than splayed out all over it. 

Well. 

"John," Sally said, "I have the files the freak asked for. If I could leave them in your room…" the point of the comment was obvious. There was no real need for the files to be with John rather than Sherlock, and everything from Sherlock's ruffled hair and the two suitcases were screaming implications of more. 

"It's just the one room," John said, evenly. 

Sally Donovan's gaze raked over the evident disarray of the bed, probably reminding herself that they'd only arrived this morning and by all rights the bed should still have been made, Sherlock's appearance and back to John. 

"So you're…" 

"Fucking," Sherlock finished the sentence for her, "Yes. _Obviously."_

"Not helpful, Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes, "we could go through the files downstairs?" John suggested, because now that was out in the open it seemed even more grossly inappropriate to have Sally Donovan just standing there (looking vaguely shocked and possibly a little disturbed). 

John dumped the pizza down on the desk with a grimace. Apparently, his stomach was going to have to wait a little longer. He could hardly tell Sally to piss off when she'd just travelled all this way to stop them being done for contaminating crime scenes, and now the case was back in business Sherlock wasn't going to be so easily distracted by food or sex or John. 

"Go shower, Sherlock," John said, glancing at the pizza with a small smile, "and try not to eat all the pizza," 

"Hilarious," Sherlock returned expression disdainful. 

He still hadn't quite gotten over how fun it was to tease Sherlock. 

"Sorry about… that," John said, slightly uncomfortably, as he turned back to Sally, "and having to come up here…You know what he's like…" Sally Donovan remained absolutely silent, eyebrows raised slightly. 

"So, you two…?" 

"Yep," John said, cutting across her. 

o0o0o

John was flicking through the files that Sally Donovan had just delivered, sipping a cup of coffee in the hotel bar whilst Sally nipped to the toilet (probably to text Anderson about what she'd just witnessed in the hotel room, if John was brutally honest about the whole thing). 

"Hmm," Sherlock said, suddenly behind him and reading the file over his shoulder, one hand curved around the edge of John's bar stool and far closer than usual. John turned to look at him, finding himself much closer to Sherlock's chest than was the norm – very coupley and certainly much more affectionate than they usually were in public, "Sally has a new boyfriend." 

"Oh?" 

"New haircut," Sherlock said, "more expensive than normal, and she's had her nails done. However, clothing less expensive than that she usual wears, suggesting she's saving her favourite items of clothing for someone a bit more special than us. Plus, you can see from the line of her shoulders that she's recently – " 

" – if you start deducing things about Donovan's sex life," John interrupted. 

"It's hardly a deduction if it's that obvious," 

"Says you," John countered, "I've never seen you look so thoroughly post-coital in your life, and that's saying something." 

"And whose fault is that?" Sherlock asked, smirking slightly, close enough that John could feel his breath on his skin. 

"Oh no," John said, "I'm not taking the blame for this one. I had to distract you somehow." 

"Donovan seems to think we are… friends with benefits," 

"Well," John said, "that's essentially what you told her, Sherlock," 

"That's not what I meant," 

"That's what you said. Nice and romantic, that," 

"You didn't correct her," Sherlock said, eyes narrowed, still very close, "because you think I'd prefer her to believe that," 

"Well?" 

"Well," Sherlock said, lips brushing against John's for a split second, "you're wrong." 

"So this is the big coming out thing, is it?" John said, one hand reaching out and almost automatically reaching out to curve around Sherlock's hip, "because I thought we'd decided against that," 

"Please," Sherlock said, glancing over his shoulder – towards the woman's toilet where Sally had disappeared to – "the whole yard will know in a few hours," 

"Okay," John said, dropping his hand and turning around. Sally had paused and was watching the pair of them, probably had been for a few minutes, and had witnessed one of the most publically affectionate moments of Sherlock ever (which, it seemed, had been his intention), "although you know," John continued, pulling the file towards him as Sherlock took his own seat next to him, "if you wanted to whisk me away for a nice romantic city break, you could have just asked." 

Sherlock grimaced at the sarcasm, but he was obviously amused too. His eyes glittered slightly. 

"I like to think I'd have managed something a little better than _Birmingham."_

"It's the second city," 

"It's a poor second. How anyone could even compare this place to London is beyond me," 

"I'll add it to the list," John said, as Sally finally stopped pretending not to be watching them and resumed her seat (eyes still piercing into the side of John's head). Sherlock sent him a questioning look. "A list of the endless things that are beyond you," John clarified, "top being an inability to buy milk when I ask you to." 

"It's hardly _difficult,"_

"And yet you never manage it," 

"So you're a couple, then?" Sally Donovan asked, glancing between the pair of them for another few seconds. 

"Yes," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "obviously." 

And that was that. 

0o0o0o0o0o

The only good thing about the whole situation was that the Daily Mail had one upped Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft had spent a month stalking and had produced a twelve second clip in which John had briefly held Sherlock's hand; the Mail had spent two weeks digging around and now had a picture of them snogging. Not quite on the front page, but near enough the beginning half of the newspaper to mean that John's phone had been going off continually and the traffic on his blog had crashed the server. 

The photo itself was a result of John disappearing on a weeklong medical conference which, oddly, marked the longest period of time they'd spent apart since John had gone on holiday with Sarah eons ago. It was hardly a big deal, but this was Sherlock and so things had oscillated between complete silence and continual text messages, which were as annoying as they were nice. In the end, John had missed the bloke (and he suspected the feeling was mutual, even though Sherlock had put up a good show of pretending not to notice John was gone for three days) and when Sherlock had shockingly turned up at the station, he'd just gone right up to him and kissed him. 

It wasn't a particularly obscene kiss. He never was one for public displays of affection, really, but he remembered reaching forwards and balling up his hands in the material of Sherlock's bloody coat, chests pressed together and grinning slightly as he said "hello, Sherlock." There was one photo of them actually kissing, and another of them frozen like that – all close up, not quite embracing, staring at each other. 

All in all, it was rated up there with some of the most outwardly affectionate moments of their relationship and it as just bloody typical that someone had decided to take a photograph. And, bizarrely, this seemed to be considered newsworthy. 

"We appear to be in a public relationship," John said, closing a link to the online version of the article without reading the comments. He didn't really want to know what people were saying about the whole thing. Although, knowing what Sherlock had to say about the whole thing would admittedly be an improvement. "Sherlock," John continued, glancing over at his _partner _and cataloguing Sherlock's apparent disinterest in regard to the whole thing, "they're trying to turn us into a gay pride icon."__

 _ _"And?" Sherlock remained splayed out on the sofa, dressing gown reinstated, looking surprisingly cheerful for a Sherlock who was on lockdown until the hype had died down slightly.__

 _ _

"Well, a reaction would be nice," John muttered, lips pulling into a frown, "some opinion, maybe. A sarcastic comment? Oh for - " 

" – what now?" 

"Lestrade has just emailed me a photo," 

"Of?" 

"Of you in a bloody _rainbow_ coat, Sherlock. Your scarf is made of glitter. Oh God… My sister has sent me a link to… Sherlock," John said, taking in a deep breath, "Sherlock, there are people making fan art of our sex lives," 

That, it seemed, was enough to get Sherlock interested enough to warrant actual movement. Almost instantaneously, Sherlock was glancing over the image on John's computer screen. 

(He was going to kill Harry, honestly he was, for linking him to this… site; he did not need to see so many reincarnations of himself pushing Sherlock against walls or fucking him in alleyways… it was disturbing and weird). 

"Inaccurate," 

"How?" 

"Your shoulder," Sherlock said, bending down to get a proper view of the screen, "no wound," 

"But, generally, this is pretty accurate," John said, gesturing hopelessly at the screen as Sherlock began to scroll through the series of pictures. If you ignored the ones where Sherlock was wearing high heels (what?), and tweaked the expressions slightly… well, he couldn't deny the figures in this weird gay… well, porn he supposed, did bear a striking resemblance to them in most ways. 

"Debatable," Sherlock muttered, shrugging. 

"So it doesn't bother you that a bunch of strangers are imagining us having sex?" 

"No," 

"I need to post something on the blog," John said, flicking back over to the email from Lestrade, where rainbow-Sherlock's scarf was still glittering alarmingly. 

"Why?" 

"Because," John said, "we are not an advert for gay pride," 

"John…" 

"We're just not, Sherlock. We're not like that. It was one public kiss, not a political statement…" 

"So?" 

"So," John said, "they're acting as if this is new news. If they find out we've been in a relationship for a good six months, they're going to think we've been hiding it, which isn't very pride worthy," Sherlock, evidentially bored of the computer screen, was instead focusing in trailing kisses down John's neck, which was making it difficult for him to remember the point he was trying to make. "It's just… a matter of respect," John continued, reaching up and wrapping his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, holding him close to his skin. 

"Was there a picture of me sucking you off?" 

John still hadn't quite got used to Sherlock's tendency to revert to distinctly not posh language on occasions, and every time his deep baritone was matches with phrases lie that he quite forgot how to think for a few good minutes. 

"No," John said, "Although I can google it if you want?" 

"It's fine," Sherlock said, hands ghosting across his thighs, glancing up to his partner, "I'm sure I can remember how it goes. Or do you want me to leave you alone to write that blog?" 

"Wait a sec," John said, flipping down the lid of his laptop, "rainbow-Sherlock is creeping me out." 

John closed his eyes for a split second. So maybe everyone in that god damn world now knew that he was in this wacky relationship with his mad genius of a flatmate, but maybe said relationship was good enough that he didn't much care that everyone knew.

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End file.
